


Somnium Meum Vestrum

by shoulderbone (lavenderforluck)



Series: somnium meum vestrum [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Definitely self-indulgent, M/M, loose timeline, mostly canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderforluck/pseuds/shoulderbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan smells like smoke and spice, like the memory of a home he's never had; like a feeling he dares not name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somnium Meum Vestrum

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture in the Raven Cycle and I'm not really sure what I'm doing. This story can stand alone but is technically Part 1 of 2 - another piece will follow. It loosely (very loosely) follows the canon of the book, but the time line probably doesn't.
> 
> One thing to note here - I read (in the novels) Adam as being Native American. I'm not quite sure why I did this - seeing as he is depicted as having sandy blonde hair and Stiefvater confirmed him to be white - but I couldn't quite shake that depiction. Here I wrote him as Cherokee through his mother - I was raised in a half-native, half-white household, though I am not Cherokee, so any issues or mistakes I have I want to correct. Another thing - I left Blue/Gansey opened ended for interpretation. I also excluded the plot about Blue killing Gansey with her kiss.
> 
> For more notes and translations, see the end.

_I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars._

—

| 

Richard Siken, Crush  
  
---|---  
  
 

It was enough time after the funeral that her death was no longer in the forefront of his mind, burning a hole through his head until he had to rub at skin with ice cold fingers, but it wasn’t so long that the leaves had fallen off the trees. Adam sometimes has difficulty keeping track with the days. They all seem to blur together into a mess of piling of homework, bleary-eyed class attendances, and that heavy smell that seems to permeate inside the BMW, the stark headlights cutting corners as they peel through the night.

 

It had been a Sunday - Adam thinks - or perhaps it had just felt like a Sunday. The air was chilly but sunny overhead, all of Henrietta seemingly decorating for an early autumn season, pumpkins carved on corners and scarecrows pinned outside of grocery stores. It reminded him of a childhood he didn’t really have but deeply craved - a tender spot, this back-to-school, beginning of October nostalgia.

 

He had fallen asleep on the sofa at Monmouth the night before - new, in concurrence with Blue’s protests that they couldn’t always sit where Gansey _slept -_ and woken up with a woolly mouth to Noah and Ronan watching _Halloweentown_ on the rarely used television, a bowl of cereal nestled in Ronan’s lap. Adam remembers, with a certain heat creeping on his cheeks that he had been covered with a quilt that looked distinctly similar to the one Ronan kept on his bed, and his feet were tucked between Ronan’s back and the sofa.

 

The day had unspooled into nothing paramount, but Adam felt strangely comforted by it - Gansey spent at least an hour typing up and categorizing notes he had from a book on Welsh myth, his glasses low on his pale straight nose; Blue painted her fingernails, using Ronan’s arm as a table as the movie played. Adam caught up on reading he hadn’t been able to the night before.

 

It descended into darkness and soon they all went their different ways - Noah faded into his room for some space away from the noise, Gansey has whisked Blue home and would not return any time soon. It wasn’t until Adam closed his book for his American history class that he realised it was night and only Ronan was left, subdued and reclined on the sofa, watching Adam out of the corner of his eye. The tv was on mute, playing subtitles, and Adam embarrassingly wondered how long it had been like that.

 

“You wanna go for a drive?” he had asked, one eyebrow raised. He looked strangely soft, reclined as he was, his chin touching his chest, cheeks slightly ruddy from the inconsistent heating in Monmouth. Adam nodded, picking up his notes and placing Gansey’s textbook back on his desk.

 

He shrugged on a cable knit sweater - a wool hand-me-down from one of the two second hand shops Henrietta had. It smelt like 300 Fox Way: She had taken it to teach him how to hand wash wool, despite protesting that she wasn’t the sort of girl to show him home economics. Adam had laughed. He hadn’t even known what home economics _was_ \- but nevertheless, it was easy kindness Blue exhibited that endeared her towards him.

 

The night was chilled, and Adam’s breath came out in furls of opaque smoke before him. Everything about this felt familiar: the crunch of the grave, cold and wet, the jostling of Ronan’s keys in his hand as he swung them around his finger, his shadow an easy, jaunting lope as he headed towards the card. The light flickering outside the industrial silhouette of Monmouth amidst the darkness.

 

The BMW always smelt the same: spicy like smoke and cologne, old leather, stale air. It was as comforting a smell as Adam had ever known - he seemed to spend half his time between work and school in this car. It had grown accustomed for Ronan and Adam to spend time together after everything that happened last spring, and a slow burn summer - Adam tries not to think about it too much. He doesn’t want to admit that he enjoys it, spending time with Ronan, accumulating nuances about him, his harsh reserve and prick-reflexes softening as time wore them out.

 

“Are you going to let me pick the music, or am I going to have to dig around for that earplug again,” Adam questions dryly, and Ronan rolls his eyes, pretending to be offended. He fiddles with the stereo dial, but turns it low, lower so that Adam can barely hear it with his good ear. Finally Ronan stops turning it, hand slapping his leg like he gives in.

 

“You choose,” Ronan concedes, “But no Robert Plant.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with classic rock,” Adam mutters, but does not put on Robert Plant anyway. He doesn’t bother asking Ronan where they’re going - not because Ronan wouldn’t tell him, but part of the thrill of these night drives was that Adam wanted to see want Ronan wanted to show him. There’s a sense that asking would spoil whatever this was between them, and he’s been so, so careful to avoid doing that. He’s never known anyone tougher than Ronan Lynch, and yet he can’t help but feel like he holds him in regards to his fragility.

 

They drive into the night and Henrietta becomes farther and the trees inch towards the road, bunching together and creating a night so dark only the BMW lights cut through it. The silence is comfortable, and the seats are warm. Adam sinks into it, humming along to the song. He can feel Ronan peering at him every so often, and when he sneaks his own glance he sees that Ronan isn’t smiling - but a corner of his mouth is turned up, a ghost of a smile, a promise of one.

 

Finally it clears enough that Ronan can pull off and onto a side road, bathing them even deeper into dense woods. Adam marvels at every tree, aligned and crooked and disappearing up into the far corners of the earth. It clears quite suddenly, so much so that Adam blinks as if he’s missed something. He peers over the hood of the car, looking for the reason for the absence of woods.

 

The car door slams. Adam follows suit, shaking off the most of the evening and following the opening to find what looked like a shallow pool. It simmers unnaturally; opaque and a cool blue that did not give away whether it was warm or cold.

 

Adam turns sharply to face Ronan, the contours of his face glowing from the light emitted from the water. He looked a multitude of things Adam can't remember ever seeing on his face before: elated, disbelieving, hungry.

 

The forest around didn’t make a sound, almost unnaturally still. Adam couldn't hear anything but whispers of leaves rustling and nothing like the magic found at Cabeswater.

 

"Ronan?" he asked, "what is this?"

 

"It's a pool my father dreamed," he murmurs, bending down to purvey it closer.

 

Adam squawks, "He dreamed it? Holy shit -"

 

"I know. I was rummaging through his journals and found a detailed account of what he tried to do - and where it was, and how to get there. He must have tried and failed a hundred times before he succeeded," the tone of Ronan's voice tendered something in Adam's chest, and he knelt quietly to the ground, peering at the milky blue water just out of touch.

 

"Why?" Adam couldn't find a logical reason as to why Niall Lynch had gone through the trouble of dreaming a pool.

 

"Why?" Ronan repeated. "Why not? Doesn't it make you feel powerful to know you're magic?"

 

Adam had never asked himself that. He wasn't magical - not in the way that Ronan was magical, where in it ran in his blood and his bones and was his birth right. There was, in fact, nothing _natural_ about Ronan - not in the way he held himself, or spoke, or viewed the world around him. Adam wonders if that's why he finds himself so willingly to bend his own hard earned rules to accommodate him.

 

Adam had never earned his magical perigee - that was a deal he made, and sacrificed for. It was strange that Ronan didn't differentiate. But then he saw little material difference between himself and Adam, where that's sometimes _all_ Adam could see.

 

Lost in thought, Adam is a beat late when he realizes Ronan is already shucking his shirt and unbuttoning his jeans.

 

"Ronan-" he protests, but it was already too late - Adam could see that Ronan was already set on getting in, on swimming in his father's dream.  Adam sees the sentiment - and wonders how long Ronan has been pouring over these journals in order to find it. Wonders if Ronan even thought to bring him along or if it wasn't even a question; Ronan lives in a world often of simple truths and obvious answers.

 

Adam has reached up to yank off his sweater and his shirt in one go, feeling his skin instantly prickle against the brittle temperature. He shuffled out of his trousers too, watching as Ronan slid in before him, legs first. The muscles in his back flexed, shoulder blades pulling together like dawn breaking.

 

"What does it - what does it feel like?" Adam can't keep the stutter out of his breath. He inhales October air, holding it tight and bitterly in his chest. Ronan turns around, bright blue and glowing. He looks absurd, and sort of beautiful.

 

"Get in," is all he says, his face breaking into a fully-fledged smile. Adam does.

 

The water is warm - pleasantly so, almost like a bath, and while it appears thick, it runs smooth through Adam’s fingers when he parts it.

 

He realizes he’s no longer cold, and his feet are touching the bottom. Small rocks slip between his toes, but he has no fear of falling.

 

"This is -"

 

"Fucking amazing," Ronan breathes, looking up at the stars with his head tipped back, bare neck glistening with water. He’s still smiling, and for the first time, Adam is truly mesmerised by the sight of him.

 

They swam for a while, Ronan swimming in the deeper side, Adam wading with his feet hovering over the pebbles bottom. The light from it seemed to originate from below the pool, and Adam kept parting the opaque water with his hands only to find more of it pooling around him.

 

"Should we see how deep this goes?" Ronan asks.

 

"What if it has no real bottom? It's his dream, after all," Adam didn't like the idea of Ronan trying to reach the bottom from where he was - it could be very likely a pool that went down for ages on one side, until only darkness and water resided, and he didn't like the idea of Ronan trying to find the depths of what appears to be his dead father's head.

 

But Ronan appeared not to agree, and he shrugs, looking at where the light simmered, seemingly leagues below them. "Worth a shot," he surmises, and before Adam can protest another word, he disappears.

 

Adam looks around. The trees, though only a few feet away, seem distant, dark and ominous. He can see the breeze through the branches but feel no hint of it on his skin. The water is similar, a clean opaque blue, but the light reflecting back at him looks more like a lamplight at the bottom of the pool instead of something ethereal now. It was if Ronan's absence almost made the glow simmer and diminish.

 

A minute passes, and then another one, and Adam starts to shift nervously, pebbles shifting uneasily between his toes. It's a half second before he decides to dive in after Ronan and pull him from the depths -

 

-when a wet splash blinding him and a hot pressure against his neck and chest is choking him so desperately that the only choice he has is to grab on and anchor himself. Sputtering and trying to open his eyes, Ronan's is blinking into his view, wheezing and dripping water from his eyelashes.

 

"What the _fuck_ , Lynch," Adam curses, half twang and half irrational anger, clutching Ronan's forearms and wrenching them from around his neck. He takes a shuddering gulp of air.

 

"Sorry," Ronan says, still heaving, and then he moves farther into Adam's space and kisses him.

 

As far as first kisses go, Adam didn't picture it to be as wet or as suffocating, but given that it's Ronan, he supposed both are more accurate than he could have predicted. It feels as if he's light headed and running on pure adrenaline and Adam is being inhaled through the kiss; head tilted back, back curved at an awkward angle, as Ronan's teeth pulled at his lower lip and his cold palm came to cup the back of Adam's neck.

 

They break apart; the pool glistens, and more than anything, he finally feels as if he has seeped into a dream.

 

Neither of them speak. And then -

 

"Ronan," he breathes, and he realises his voice cracks over his name like wood breaking, and he shivers, embarrassed, even though the blood rushing to his extremities makes him feel like he's burning.

 

But Ronan doesn't answer him. He moves again, closer, their chests touching, reaching up to wipe at the water underneath Adam's eye with his thumb, pulling it down until he's touching the centre of his bottom lip. Adam hardly dares to breathe, chest still shuddering, as he opens his mouth and touches the tip of his tongue against Ronan's skin.

 

All Adam can hear is the low sound Ronan makes deep within in chest, before he forcibly removed himself from Adam and rubs a hand over his face. He doesn't know what it means,  so he asks, "did you reach it?"

 

"What?" Ronan turns shapely back to him.

 

"The bottom," Adam clarifies. "Did you reach the bottom?"

 

"No," Ronan said, "I don't know how deep it goes. But I couldn't - "

 

He stops. Fixes a heavy stare that makes Adam feel like he's being scrutinised, and his skin starts to itch.

 

"We should go," Ronan finally says. Adam nods. He doesn't know how long they've been here.

 

They both heave themselves out of the pool, and the water seems to evaporate off his skin at a rate he knows isn't natural. His boxers are hardly wet. He pulls his clothes on where they lie cold on the damp earth. The pool keeps swirling, light dimmer as they walk away from it and back to the BMW.

 

"Could you see anything?" Adam asks him finally, as the trees start to thin out and Henrietta's town limits begin to appear. "When you were down there."

 

He half expects Ronan to snarl at him, his shoulders drawn in a tense shrug, waiting to snap like a cord. But he doesn't. He looks tired instead, and won’t move his eyes off the road to look at Adam.

 

"No," Ronan shakes his head. "There was only light."

 

-

 

The school year seems to unspool before Adam's very eyes, and it's not until he's submitted his last essay due in October that he breathes a sigh of relief and realizes that Halloween is the next day.

 

Blue is predictably buzzing about it. It makes sense to Adam that it would be one of her favourite holidays, and more so, 300 Fox Way is decorated so exceedingly that it's one of the favourite houses in Henrietta's to visit. Until today, sitting shotgun in the Pig as it idles outside a convenience store while Gansey and Ronan rummage for different candies, or so Adam assumes - he hadn't really been listening, too busy to writing things down to be done for next week and checking off his homework on a small notepad.

 

"I think we should really start with _Hocus Pocus_ first and then finish with _Halloween_ , as both are classics on opposite ends of the Halloween spectrum -" Blue argues to no one, seeing as neither Noah not Adam are disputing her. The car door slams, interrupting her, and Adam feels something drop into his lap.

 

It's a Hershey's chocolate and almond bar. He picks it up, and turns around to the inevitable culprit. Ronan raises an eyebrow, mouth puckered around a sucker and bulging in his cheek. Adam swears he isn't looking.

 

"You didn't need to get me anything," Adam says, and it is the same old song and dance with them.

 

"I'm aware of that, thanks," Ronan rounds out predictably. The sucker makes an audible pop as it leaves his mouth, and Adam has to train his eyes on Ronan instead of where he wants to look. Ronan smirks like he knows.

 

"But I don't -” _have any money for it_ , goes unspoken between them. Gansey revs the pig, backing out of the parking space and throwing jolly ranchers at Blue one by one amidst her giggles.

 

Ronan sits back. "Consider it a gift."

 

Adam knows he'll lose this, because he loses nearly all of these fights, and besides, a candy bar to Ronan isn't anything special to his abundant trust fund. But it adds up, all the small things, and Adam knows this. Instead he says nothing. His eyes flutter for a second and he catches a glimpse of Ronan's cherry flavoured mouth.

 

"Thanks," he mutters, colouring slightly, and turning away to face the front.

 

It had been like this since before the pool in the woods - probably long before this, but now Adam notices without fail, and the blatant obviousness of Ronan's offerings are so clear with his intent that it's almost wrong to call him on it.

 

The rent, the lotion, his dad, before anything else - it all falls into place for Adam, and the universe, seeming thin and transparent before now, connects itself easily and slides into view with stunning accuracy. Adam is not complaining that his world now seems only a little bit smaller.

 

It's not even that Ronan is too stupid to realise he's being obvious; Adam has known for a long time that Ronan is anything but stupid - it relates back to his policy on not lying, and realising Ronan sees his - his behaviour towards Adam as nothing to hide. He can't imagine what it feels like to feel something so thoroughly and be able to act on it. Shame follows Adam around in nearly everything he does.

 

The Pig drives as Noah dictates music choices from the back seat in conjugal with Blue's protest or cheers. Gansey steers the car with capable hands as Henrietta rolls out before them, chilled and dark, a lavender and orange velour that hangs like a sheen over their small claim to the earth. Ronan's knees provide a steady pressure on the back of Adam's chair. He thinks of it as purposeful. Adam unwraps his candy - his favourite - and takes a bite.

 

He can feel Ronan's eyes on him the entire ride home.

 

-

 

He knows things have changed since that night in the dream pool. He just can't articulate what exactly has changed, and what it all means now.

 

The last night of October, Adam heads over to Monmouth at the bequest of Blue and Gansey. They had been invited to a Halloween party Aglionby at Tad's sprawling property a half an hour outside of Henrietta's town limits. Of all the boys at Aglionby, he lived the closest except for Gansey, who was all too happy to slum it with the rest of the locals, and Ronan, who probably didn't care. He wasn't sure why they were going - but it seemed prudent to Gansey and even Ronan that they participate with rest of their school, given the disastrous events last spring and the subsequently grim summer that followed.

 

Perhaps Gansey just wanted to be a normal teenager for once, despite his obvious eccentricities, and this Adam could not fault him. Even Ronan had been unable to put any dampers in this plan. Gansey was their king. What he wanted, in the end, he got.

 

True to Raven Boy style, as Blue had dubbed them, they forwent the toga style costumes or the morph suits. Adam tugged on the high collar of his black shirt - a borrow from Gansey, whose wardrobe seemed to consist only of collared polo shirts - he was supposed to be a vampire, hair ruffled by Blue with her tiny nymph fingers to give the allure that Adam was something to be restrained. He had red blood in the corner of his mouth, and he tries to avoid touching it, remembering distantly the last time he had actual blood in his mouth.

 

Gansey had surprised them all with his attempt as something non traditional, going as some sort of sea creature - a selkie, he had called it, which sounded sort of like a male mermaid that Gansey would have looked up at some point and thought was a plausible costume idea. His cheeks were smeared with blue and silver glitter, his hair slicked back towards the nape of his neck. It didn't matter, really, what Gansey went as - bizarre or not, he commands the attention of whoever is in his orbit, and his charisma and wholesome looks are enough not to question the ensemble. Noah, who had seemed reluctant at first to join, went as himself. Blue drew dark purple circles under his eyes, but they had already faded.

 

But it was Ronan who caught Adam off guard. It wasn't until they all piled into the Pig that Ronan had come to join them, smelling like smoke and whiskey. His entire face was painted like a skull, including his mouth, which were was drawn in a lattice pattern with black to resemble teeth. When he surveyed all sitting in the backseat, Adam realised, stomach dropping, there was only his round blue irises staring back at him.

 

Blue noisily fixed her fake wicker basket with the plush Toto hanging out pathetically, Ronan leering with a wicked grin on his face. "Might as well get this shit show on the road!"

 

"Really, Ronan," Gansey admonished, but he’s positively glowing with silver dust and cheerfulness, "must you drink before we even arrive?"

 

"That's the point," Ronan returned, quick like lightening. He passed half a bottle of Jack to Blue. "Drink fast, the burn will go away eventually."

 

Blue fixes a stare at him for a minute, and then takes it between both palms and tips it towards her mouth. Adam avoids Ronan's gaze but still drinks, only a little. He wasn't a fan of alcohol for obvious reasons, but he also wasn't his father. It was a constant battle that plagued Adam. He was from Henrietta, and drinking was in his blood; dirt rolling between tires, or rusted metal, or that southern roll of his tongue made up parts of what it meant to be him. He passes it back, and their fingers brush for a second. Ronan’s hands are warm.  

 

Wolfish was the only way to describe the look on Ronan's face as they peeled out into the night, into the woods, on Halloween night.

 

-

 

The party is in its upswing when they get there. Gansey does the rounds of greeting everyone while Ronan heads straight for the open bar in the kitchen, his face set in a thinly veiled grimace, exacerbated by his makeup. Noah and Blue stuck close to Adam, both looking unsure as what to do. He snuck a glance at Blue and found that she was looking back him expectantly.

 

"It's not like I know anyone here," she shot at him, and he shrugs. It's not like he knew anyone terribly well either. He supposed the best thing he could do is get her drink, though, so he pulls her through crowds of half dressed mummies, a cowboy, and approximately three cats. He had no idea Tad Carruther even knew any girls. Most of the Aglionby boys didn't.

 

In the kitchen Ronan was nowhere to be found. Adam poured Blue a drink from the red punch, though it smelt something akin to sour candy and vodka. She didn't seem to mind when she took a drink.

 

"I'll go take one to Gansey," she decides, and with a turn of her ruby red heel, disappears into the crowd.

 

He stood there alone, unsure of what to do. Predictable. Adam made a few rounds, saying hello to different people in his advance English language class and one kid he’s sure is in his calculus class, but otherwise has nothing to contribute and nothing to say. Almost everyone is drinking, and some of them were smoking inside, tendrils of cigarette smoke billowing up into the Carruther's high ceilings. His friends are nowhere to be found.

 

The music is so loud in his ear that it made his world one sided and disconcerting. There are so many people in every room he feels mildly suffocated. The girls are pretty, waving at him, giggling in his ears, dressed like cats and mice and drinking out of high stemmed glasses and red solo cups. He has trouble focusing on what they are saying to him. He keeps thinking of Ronan’s hands, tight around the bottleneck of Jack.

 

As the night progresses, the sway of the atmosphere becomes heavier as people drink and darker with the night. _Scream_ was playing loudly in one room, as Drew Barrymore finds her high school hunk of a boyfriend eviscerated outside. One girl Adam is sure is from a neighbouring town - there was no way she was Henrietta's finest - offers bright yellow pills to anyone who wants one. Adam searches for Gansey, eager to know when they would be going. He’s embarrassingly flattered by the amount of people who seem to want to talk to him, but also acutely miserable about being here in the first place. His collar is itching the back of his neck, and all he wants to do was wipe the fake blood off his mouth.

 

Back in the kitchen, he’s pouring himself a glass of water when it’s knocked out of his hand. He turns around to face a guy he doesn't know, dressed up like Indiana Jones and squinting at him like he's stupid.

 

" _Water_. We don't drink water here," the kid sneers, and Adam rolls his eyes when he realises how drunk he is. He tries to thrust a beer at Adam, glassy eyed. Adam places it on the counter pointedly, staring him down.

 

His manner is confident and perhaps oafish, but he's got a thickness about him which means he's certainly not an Aglionby boy. Adam looks around at all the people around them, but no one seems to have noticed. The bass in the other room rings in his good ear. He turns around again to pick up his cup.

 

"Yo, are you deaf?" the kid laughs, but it is full of mirth. He tugs on Adam's shoulder again, and he can't help but flinch, his forearms up in defence, pushing the kid away so quickly that he stumbles backward into someone else.

 

Something crosses over his face as his cheeks colour like a ruddy rash as he glares at Adam. "Do you have a problem, man? I’m trying to offer you a beer here, and you’re being fucking rude."

 

Adam glares back at him, throat tight, arm stilled poised against his chest defensively.  " _No_ ," he said, but his voice breaks at the wrong time and it comes out like a croak. He feels himself flushing.

 

The guy doesn't seem to hear him, and the lack of response irritates him further. _Bully_ , Adam thinks. _Rich loser who never had anyone stand up to him_. The voice in his head sounds suspiciously like Ronan. He feels the anger begin to simmer in his stomach, pent up aggression rising in his throat. Thoughts like those are ones he tried very hard to tamper down and ignore.  Now more than ever, he wants to leave.

 

"I asked if you had a fucking problem man," he grounds out, pulling himself back up into Adam's space.  

 

Adam's a knee jerk reaction away from elbowing this guy in the face when a hand comes out to touch Adam's shoulder. He turns - trying not to flinch, only to find himself facing Ronan's elaborately painted face. His mouth is set in that frown again, and his eyes are clear and fierce.

 

"I was looking for you," Ronan says under his breath, and then takes half a glance at the Indiana Jones asshole. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

 

Pushing himself off the counter, he realises he had backed up against it so fiercely that he could feel it indent in his spine. He glares, throwing his cup back in the sink, trying to move around him without touching shoulders. He feels a hand on his collarbone that pulls him back, and his gut sinks, as everything starts to spin.

 

“You didn’t answer me. I asked you, are you _fucking_ deaf, man?” Indiana Jones asks, drunk arrogance lilting in his voice. His face is bright red. He’s looking for a fight. Adam prepares himself to be hit, flinching away in momentum before he gets the first swing in.

 

But nothing comes. For a moment Adam is disoriented, until he realises that the guy who had just tried to pull him back was now leaning against the fridge, holding his nose. Blood drips down from his nose and onto his chin, and Ronan is wiping his mouth. It’s only too easy to understand, and before Indiana Jones can get ready to swing back, Adam pulls on Ronan’s sleeve and drags him out of kitchen and into the garden. Ronan, to his surprise, follows without protest.

 

The cold air assaults his cheeks, which he realizes now are burning. With shame, with anger, with being overwhelmed at all the commotion and the regret of making the choice to come to a Carruther house party. Adam doesn’t know. He desperately wants quiet. He wants darkness of his hovel above the church. He wants Ronan to stop looking at him like that, like he can’t help himself, gaunt and strange underneath his skeleton makeup.

 

They stumble upon Blue and Gansey by mistake, who are sitting under on a tacky wood porch swing, red solo cups piled at their feet. Blue was rosy cheeked and still lovely, though her wicker basket had gone awry and she had blue makeup smeared across the side of her cheek and down her arms. Gansey is as relaxed and slacken as Adam had ever seen him. His glasses are tucked back in his silver hair, and his smile reminds Adam of a younger version of Gansey he’s never met.

 

“Hey,” Adam says shortly, “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

 

He takes the keys from Gansey’s outstretched hand, and leads the pack back from the garden to the street where they drove in. Gansey is loping and giggling, arms looped in between Blue’s and Noah’s, who had appeared again when he realised they were leaving. Noah eyes Adam and Ronan and the pointed distance between them, but says nothing. Adam is too distracted to be grateful for small mercies.

 

For once there’s no argument, no disagreement amongst them about music or candy or pit stops or who sat where, but Adam still sat tightly coiled and tense. He tries to listen to Gansey’s incessant nonsense rambling - riling Blue up just because he can - but is unable to think about anything else but Ronan’s eyes boring into his, his hand on his shoulder. He tries not to be angry. He fails.

 

Gansey goes first, then Blue, because 300 Fox Way is the farthest. They’ve done this before. Adam always returns the Pig the next morning. Gansey has another car, and understands.

 

Ronan looks at him then, shadowed by the darkness. Adam doesn’t ask why he didn’t get out with Gansey when they were dropping Noah and him off at Monmouth. Adam thinks he knows but doesn’t want to know. Instead he turns the ignition off and goes into St. Agnes without another word.

 

His apartment is lit only by the fairy lights Blue had taped up for him when he first moved in, and a draft is billowing in from the window he forgot to close. He kicks off his shoes, washing his face in his tiny sink and staring at himself in the mirror. Tanned freckled skin and high cheek bones started back at him. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.

 

Ronan is standing outside the door when he re-opens it, and he startles, reminded of his costume. Neither of them laugh. It’s not until Ronan shifts and he sees that his cheek is smeared with blood; his knuckles scraped.

 

“You’re bleeding,” Adam says quietly. He takes Ronan by the wrist, up into the light, watches as a single stream of blood trails down from his fingers to his arm. He grimaces. Ronan pays no attention, only studying Adam’s face; his eyes focused somewhere above his mouth but below Adam’s gaze.

 

Maybe it’s the night and all that it’s given them so far. Maybe it’s _yo, are you deaf, man_? Echoing in Adam’s ear. Maybe it’s the last few weeks of stress and exhaustion and the looks Ronan gives him, the chocolate in his lap, the pool - it all spoils over in Adam’s gut, and he takes Ronan, still clutching his wrist, and sits him on the toilet in his crooked misshapen bathroom. Ronan behaves. Adam wonders just how much he could make him do, and then cowers at the thought of that kind of power.

 

He takes a cloth from the basin and raises it to Ronan’s face. The cold dampness of it must surprise him, because he startles; or maybe it’s because Adam is being gentle. Adam doesn’t know a damn thing about gentle. Perhaps Ronan is teaching him.

 

He removes most of the make up, dark shadows staining underneath Ronan’s eyes and his mouth, and then rinses the cloth again. He places it in the sink. He brings Ronan’s fingers to his mouth.

 

A sharp inhale. Adam looks, but Ronan’s eyes have fluttered closed, lips parted just so, a hint of pearly teeth underneath. Tentatively, he touches the tip of his tongue to the cut on Ronan’s knuckle, and tastes the red-salt-rust of his blood. Something about Ronan’s attention makes him ruthless. He wants to run wild. He wants to be free and owned only by the woods and ocean and moon. Knowing this about himself was terror. Ronan knew this. Ronan knew this feeling too.

 

He reaches again for the cloth, and cleans Ronan’s hands clean. The moment is over. Whatever war waging in Adam has lost. Ronan stands up, cocking his head to the side in confusion. Even though Adam is but a half inch taller, Ronan gives the impression that he’s staring down at Adam.

 

“I’m sorry about the blood in your mouth,” is what he says next. His voice sounds like the dust under gravel.

 

Adam shakes his head. “Better it was yours.”

 

Ronan is so close Adam can see where he’s licked his upper lip. He moves slightly, head tilted back, and Ronan mimics like he’s about to kiss him. Their breath mingles.

 

Adam turns away. “I don’t need help standing up for myself.”

 

Ronan swallows. “I know that.”

 

“And yet you still did it,” he points out. He leaves the bathroom and into his room, pulling Gansey’s high necked shirt off his back. He stands in the dark with his pale chest, naked and brash, back to Ronan. He can feel his gaze. He finds the shirt he sleeps in, and slips in on. “You knocked that guy back and for what? What happens if he went to Aglionby? You going to get kicked out of school because he was an asshole?”

 

“He _didn’t_ go to Aglionby, and I _won’t_ get kicked out of school,” Ronan says coolly, and it surprises Adam how level his tone is; Adam is radiating again with anger, and his mouth floods with saliva similar to when he’s about to lose his temper. He stifles his exhale, rolling his eyes. Ronan fixes him with a look, “What? You’re angry at _me_?”

 

“Of course I’m angry at you,” Adam grinds out. “I don’t understand why you do this stupid fucking shit. I don’t understand why you can’t - _for once_ \- just leave it. Is it that you don’t think I can’t handle it? Because I’ve been getting along fine without anyone helping me - ”

 

“For fuckssake, Adam, we fucking know that,” Ronan bursts out, “We know you can fucking handle yourself. We know you do every goddamn thing on your own. ‘God forbid anyone helps Adam’, fuck, ‘I don’t want to be nice to Adam, because then he’ll think he fucking owes me’ - why can’t you ever get _it_?”

 

Adam brings his shaking hands up to his mouth and finds that he’s bitten through his lip. He glares at Ronan, seething, face hot to touch. “ _What_?” he snaps, “What on earth don’t I get?”

 

Ronan fixes him with a look. He turns, jaw ticking. “Never mind,” he says, and he turns to face the window, the moon pouring over his features like water. For a moment Adam thinks he will turn and leave, and part of him doesn’t want that. Whatever this is, whatever they’ve started - it isn’t over.

 

Silence falls over both of them like a shroud. And then, “I know if anyone can handle themselves alone, it’s you. But that doesn’t mean you always have to.”

 

If Adam hadn’t been watching his mouth he’d never believe Ronan had said it at all. For a moment he can think of nothing and when Ronan sneaks a glance at him, he nods. Ronan frowns then. “I don’t like it when people call you fucking deaf.”

 

A laugh startles out of Adam. _Of all of the things_ , he thinks, and then shakes his head.

 

“I am kinda deaf, though,” he protests and he finds that the tension rolls out of Ronan’s shoulders and he realises he never knew it was there in the first place. That terror again. Ronan carries it in haunches. He takes a step closer to Ronan, gazing out at the moon with him, their elbows brushing. It sends a shiver down Adam’s spine.

 

He thinks of the kiss in the dream pool again. He thinks of Ronan’s hands around his neck, clutching so hard Adam saw stars. He thinks of the stars now. They’re staring into the abyss, and Adam feels heavy, languid with the night as it’s rolled out between them, Ronan’s eyes on the back of his neck at the party, Ronan’s eyes on him in the car, Ronan’s eyes on him wherever he goes.

 

Adam startles himself by speaking, “Do you still dream of me?”

 

Ronan rolls his eyes, a mirthless grin on his face. “Are you kidding? I’m not even sure this is real.”

 

It’s real. It is. Adam feels the heat on his face and the last remnants of Ronan’s blood on his mouth. He can feel the breeze eliciting goose bumps on his skin. He knows its real when he turns to Ronan and moves closer to him, arms up to touch his cheeks, to step into his space. Its real when he kisses Ronan’s mouth, the way Ronan accepts it, opens up to it, receiving Adam’s body as if he is saying, _finally, I’ve been waiting for you_.

 

It turns heady; hot, Adam clutches at Ronan, arms around his neck and hands cradling the back of his shaved head. Ronan kisses like he's been waiting a hundred years for it and it still isn't enough - he kisses like he's never been hungrier; he devours any will Adam had before this. Before they noticed each other. Before it all spun out of control.

 

He breaks the kiss just as Ronan bites on Adam’s lower lip, eyelashes close enough to feel, sharing the same air.

 

"Adam?" Ronan whispers into his mouth, half a question, but Adam doesn't let him finish it.

 

-

 

November is both welcome and unwelcome. The tension coiled inside of Adam has been released since Halloween, and he feels both better at focusing and still hopelessly distracted. Repressing whatever he felt for Ronan before had grown like a malignant tumour in his chest, and now when he wakes it feels as if that poison had been excised. It leaves him, at times, oddly giddy. He would call it happiness, but Adam is not naive.

 

Instead he focuses on his two jobs and his school work and aiding whatever he can in Gansey's search for Glendower.  Most nights he falls asleep as soon as he touches the bed. Some of those times it's Ronan who drives him home.

 

If he thought whatever between them would dissipate once they actualised it, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, his feelings towards Ronan, both tremendous and anguishing, have heightened. He can't help but feel that at times Ronan and him are hurtling at full speed at something unfathomable, both blind and unable to stop it.

 

What is bewildering to Adam is that his life feels - again - turned on its axis, and he is unsettled and yet the days come forth and people get on with their lives without noticing. If he could keep himself from becoming distracted with his thoughts about Ronan, even if his own day to day life seems comparatively similar as it was before they ever kissed.

 

He's called into the guidance counsellor’s office one morning in the second week of November between classes. Adam can't think what this would possibly be about unless it had something to involve Ronan and fighting - and thinks distantly back to that kid on Halloween, gut churning apprehensively. He doesn't do well with his nerves, bundled as such in his gut.

 

The counsellor, Ms. Bell, fixes him with a scrutinising look over the rim of her glasses before allowing a small smile towards his general direction. She had a unfailingly similar appearance to Ms. Frizzle, if she had aged out of the _Magic School Bus_ and somehow ended up at Aglionby. Adam sits in her overstuffed chair opposite, palms sweating.

 

"Are you alright, Mr. Parrish?" she asks him, but her tone takes him on as if she's taking notes. He nods.

 

She continues, "Do you know why I called you in?"

 

"No, I don’t, I'm sorry," Adam starts. He thinks: Ronan had picked him up from St. Agnes 20 past 7 with coffee waiting. His palms were hot from the steering wheel when he cupped the back of Adam's neck. They did not kiss. It was the kind of light out that negotiated neither if it was day nor night. He let Adam fiddle with the radio until he found what he wanted, settling back into the seat, watching the barrenness of winter overtake the Henrietta pastures, a sign for 15 pound turkeys on sale in a grocer along the highway.  He remembers thinking about his homework, that it was cold enough now he could see his breath, the way the opaque clouds of smoke curled around Ronan's mouth as he sucked down his morning cigarette. Nothing was amiss.

 

A large Manila envelope slides in front of him. The emblems shines in the yellow lighting. He looks up at Ms. Bell, who raises her brow at him. "I don't understand."

 

"Students at Aglionby are destined for amazing opportunities, and we want to make sure that you achieve great things," Ms. Bell starts. "I've looked at your records, Mr. Parrish. Straight A's since you were accepted here. Forgive me if I say this crudely - but your ethnicity and economic background as well means that you have a great chance at being accepted into any college you apply to. I'm sure some of your teachers would write to how far you've come."

 

It was quite possibly the nicest thing a stranger had ever said to him. "I've looked into it before. I want to apply - but it requires so much documentation from my parents that I -"

 

He falls quiet. Ms. Bell sits back. She looks at him like she knows, and he colors, too hot in his second hand uniform.

 

"There are ways to get around it. We can declare you independent," Ms. Bell slides the envelope toward him. "Apply. I'll call Harvard _myself_ if I have to."

 

He takes it from her. He doesn't ask, _why me, of all students_? He knows when to take what life has offered him, good or bad, and make it work in his favor. Adam never had a chance, born on the wrong side of Henrietta with dirt on his hands and an accent he’ll never be able to hide. But he's looking at the exit route out of Henrietta; he's holding in it his hands.

 

"Ms. Bell," he turns around before leaving. He flushes again. "Thank you."

 

It's not until later, after Adam has finished outlining his notes for the upcoming chemistry test, which he looks again at the application. He turns around in his wooden chair to glance back at his bed. Ronan is lying flat on his back, his copy of Romeo and Juliet on his stomach, hand still holding the page.

 

Adam pulls the application of the envelope and begins to fill it in. A lightness fills him, like a head rush, taking a considerable amount of time writing each letter in block print even though all he wants to do is scribble. The want in him is sudden and tangible, and now it's as if he's never wanted something so much: Harvard with its red brick, with its quiet libraries, drenched in its New England prestige. He wants it to the point of aching. Waiting for the ink to dry, he slips all the pages back in their original order and slides it between his school books.

 

He strips into his night shirt and down to boxers, half heartedly brushing his teeth in his slanted ceiling bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. _Your ethnicity and economic background mean you have a great chance -_

 

High cheekbones like his mother, skin dark like a permanent tan, except he holds none of the natural glow which seems to emulate from Gansey no matter the season. His dark, almond shaped eyes framed by a set of thick lashes stare at him inquisitively. His hair, which should be dark and long - plaited like his Indian mother, was instead flecked with brown and gold. People didn't know what to make of Adam. Adam didn't either.

 

Back in his room, he picks up _Romeo and Juliet,_ which lays open on Act 3, Scene 2, dog earring the page and pulling the thread barren quilt up off the end of the bed. He curls around Ronan’s body, careful not to take too much space. Ronan smells like his laundry soap and sleep and cigarette smoke - something distinct which Adam cannot help but press his nose into the skin above his jugular where he can feel his heart beating.

 

Ronan shifts, and yawns, enveloping Adam and pulling him closer. "I was almost asleep," he says quietly, his voice ruddy from disuse.

 

"Sorry," Adam whispers into his skin, and because he can't help himself, asks, "you staying?"

 

"I'm sure as hell not going back out in that fucking cold," Ronan says in way of answer. "It's drafty as shit in here, Adam. You need a space heater or five."

 

"Yeah, I'll put that on my list, thanks," Adam answers dryly. Ronan’s arm snakes behind his neck and his hand comes up to cup his cheek, tilting his face upwards. His palm fits over the expanse of Adam's jaw as he pulls him closer. Their lips meet, and Ronan kisses slowly like he's indulging himself. His mouth is hot and wet as he slide said tongue between Adam’s teeth, tasting them.

 

"I feel like I haven't seen you all day," Ronan groans, pulling back to look down his nose at Adam.

 

"We had Latin at the end of the day today," Adam protests, but Ronan just shakes his head.

 

"Not like that," his other hand roams, pulling down the loose neck of Adam's shirt to reveal his shoulder. But he must not be satisfied, because his hands roam further south, to press at the flat expanse of Adam's stomach, to run along the inside of Adam's thigh. "How do you expect me to pay attention to class when all that occupies my damn head is this?"

 

Adam smiles despite himself. "Gansey did not bend over backwards in order for you to stay at Aglionby just so you could flunk out because you can't keep your imagination at bay."

 

Ronan rolls his eyes, huffing, "please do not talk about Gansey right now."

 

Adam is more than happy to oblige; everything feels very far away from them. Ronan kisses him again, trailing his mouth down the underside of his jaw to bite at his neck. Adam tries very hard to stifle a groan, and can feel Ronan’s smile against his skin. He imagines it to be self serving. He's about to protest when Ronan’s hand ghosts over the front of Adam's boxers, and must feel how hard he is.

 

Adam can't help but arch up into it. They've only done this twice before - only had time to do anything much more than drive around late at night after Adam's finished work, too busy with class and homework and The Glendower hunt. The funeral still lingers in their minds, and they don't press it the same way the used to. Even Gansey has quieted.

 

The first time had been that Halloween night, Ronan sending shivers down his spine, his eyes still shadowed from the makeup, his mouth tasting like a hard won war. It had been Adam's first time doing anything - first kiss, first hand job. To Ronan’s credit, he didn't even seem too smug. Adam had been expecting it.

 

Ronan’s hand brings him back to the present. His fingers skim the top of Adam's boxers, teasing, and Adam tries to turn and look, to arch his back into the promise of his touch, but Ronan keeps him held close with his hand on Adam's face, pulling him close. Adam squeezes his eyes shut, and relaxes when he feels a hand come down to touch him.

 

At first he only touches through the cotton of his boxers, which makes Adam strain for contact, a thrumming in his heart sick with anticipation. Ronan dips his fingers underneath the elastic rim and reaches down to take hold of Adam. His hands are so warm and pleasant Adam sinks into the touch. He has the distinct feeling that Ronan is taking care of him, but isn't quite sure how to place it. He gasps as Ronan speeds up, touching in a way that is different every time, that feels worth coveting.

 

Ronan works Adam until he's a fine line away from coming undone and pulls back, pressing his fingers into Adam's jaw into a kiss before pumping his hand again; the shock of it sends a thrill down Adam's back, and he's panting in Ronan's mouth as he comes, sweaty and wrung out. A small laugh falls from his mouth when Ronan releases his hold on him to wipe his hand on Adam's sheet.

 

He uses the split second momentum to roll on top of Ronan, spreading him out limb for limb, kissing him soundly, as if searching for his soul.

 

-

 

Ronan drives him to school in the uniform he wore the day before. They sit drinking coffee out of a thermos when Adam reaches over to pull back the corner of Ronan's shirt to find the love bite Adam had worked into his skin the night before.

 

Ronan's eyes lift to meet his. "Possessive."

 

Adam can't help it. People who look like Ronan don't look at people who look like Adam, not the way Ronan does. Adam sees what he's holding under his thumb: pieces of a boy in disarray, trying to put himself back together. Magic in the way he moves. He says nothing, pressing his thumb into the bruise before moving up to brush away the wetness in the corner of Ronan's mouth.

 

They part for class without another glance. Adam drops the application back at Ms. Bell's office between his classes.

 

He doesn't think of what it means.  

-

 

November gives way into a blurry, exam ridden December. Pieces of their relationship become clearer to the others as if emerging quietly from a dark place. Noah, who sees all and says nothing, is both cheerful and reluctant to comment on it unless Adam paces the way for the conversation, and even though Adam knows Noah doesn't watch over St Agnes, he wonders truly how much he knows. He's grateful for Noah's unflappable nature.

 

Of course, Blue is the one who really places it all together when she sees Ronan wearing one of Adam's t shirts under his sweater. It's worn in and soft in a way only second hand clothes come in and there's a small hole in the collar where it has separated. It is later when Adam and she are thumbing through vinyl at the only music store Henrietta has to offer that she brings it up, across the stacks. She's wearing a blue beanie that tucks in most of her black hair, and a checked skirt which cinches around her knees. She looks the opposite of an Aglionby girlfriend, and it is one of the reasons Adam adores her.

 

Blue hands him an Alison Kraus record while skimming for the Kooks. "Have you and Ronan been driving around to Cabeswater?"

 

Adam shakes his head. They haven't had time to do anything remotely supernatural for weeks given their load of work. Even Ronan had finally given in and hunkered down on one of his essays, much to Adam's inner delight. "No," he says truthfully. "To be honest, I haven't even felt its pull all that much either."

 

"It has been quiet," she agrees. Then she looks up at him through her fringe, "He looks a lot better than this summer. I don't want to get carried away here, but I swear the other day he was almost nice to me."

 

Adam shrugs. He's not going to attribute any mood Ronan is in to do with him, because it most likely has little correlation. But Blue isn't deterred. They end up buying a Smashing Pumpkins CD and splitting it, three dollars each, and then sharing a large a hot chocolate at the adjoining cafe, where Blue produces two large straws from her bag and sticks them in where it sits in the middle of the table.

 

Blue turns to the topic again. "I'm just wondering about him," she says finally, "if he's okay. Last year was -," she stops, "we never talked about Kavisinky’s death, or how it affected him."

 

"We were caught up in a lot," Adam says. Only occasionally does Ronan dream about Kavisinky when he stays with Adam, and he never talks about it in the morning. Adam understands this more than anyone. Ronan never mentions when Adam flinches at sudden movement, and when he becomes irritated when Ronan accidentally spooks him. Backfiring car alarms. The smell of gin. These are bones neither of them pick at. "I think he's okay," he finally settles on, and he's content with himself that it's mostly the truth.

 

"Well, you would know, wouldn't you?" Blue edges, and Adam sees where she is going with this, and keeps very still. She smiles. "Don't worry. I am very much in support of whatever you boys are doing. I mean, you both deserve something good after all the shit we've been through, right?"

 

"Right," Adam agrees hesitantly. He realises that Blue doesn't expect him to offer anything, and relaxes, taking a large sip of their hot chocolate.

 

"I just don't want to have to clean up anyone's broken heart," she continues.

 

Adam narrows his eyes. "I'm not sure that it's that serious," he decides, though even as he says it he knows this is a lie. "I'm not depending on Ronan to make everything better."

 

Blue considers this, playing with the used sticker on the CD they just bought. Her fingers painted dark purple and there is a funny looking ring on her finger. Finally, she looks up at Adam, a sight of pure loveliness. "It's not you I'm worried about, though."

 

-

 

It's only a few days after Blue's talk with Adam that Ronan comes over late, his shoulders damp from the rain outside. Adam had been going over the finer points of his finals revision for their exam tomorrow. He watches with tired, swollen eyes as Ronan toes off his shoes carefully, hanging up his coat. He wonders when they became so complacent with each other's presence in the tiny room above St. Agnes that Adam doesn't even strike it as unusual. There are a lot of opinions that he's changed about Ronan, and some that have not.

 

Like that it's not just angry Swedish electronic music. That was some of Ronan's more aggressive music, sure, but he didn't listen to it all that often when he wasn't trying to be a dick to anyone in the car with him. Most of music ranges from early millennial techno that has very few words and a steady drum, or sober, ambient remixes of music they already listen to on the radio. Ronan likes Chopin because his mother used to listen to it late at night when she was in her studio, drawing or reading or organising her week as he grew up. This fact crops up continuously when Adam is thinking of other things, and strikes him every time. He would have never guessed.

 

Or that Ronan wears Levi's. He has probably five or six pairs of the same style and color, black, and by the second week after they kissed on Halloween night Ronan had lent Adam an old pair with a tear in the knee. The denim is durable and thick and they fit Adam well, but not like they fit Ronan. Outside of his Aglionby uniform, Ronan is minimalist and unbothered by what he wears. Adam finds this a relief, that there wasn't some inner Gansey element of Ronan were he only bought four hundred dollar wrist cuffs and expensive leather jackets.

 

The scars on his wrists haven't faded, and they run up to his forearms like willow branches. He doesn't mind when Adam touches them when they're in the cramped twin bed late at night, but he becomes self conscious if he finds people - or even Adam - looking at them for too long. Adam doesn't ask. He figures Ronan will tell him if or when he wants, or he won't. Adam finds he is surprised by how much it doesn't matter.

 

What surprises Adam most, however, is how underneath all that barbed wire is an expanse of gentleness. Ronan never takes if he has to. Ronan never asks anything of Adam if it isn't absolutely necessary. Ronan never expects anything in return. He touches Adam like he's important - not the mixed race, trailer trash, southern accented stereotype that has always haunted Adam. Of course he won't admit it - this comes to no surprise as Adam. He can't prove that there’s a softness to Ronan that lies just beneath - there's no physical evidence, and it would as soon disappear if Adam ever called him out on it. Ronan is so graceful in his delivery Adam never realises anything is amiss until after, in reflection.

 

"You left your cd in my car," Is the first thing Ronan says to him. He places _Adore_ by the Smashing Pumpkins on the desk. It was the one he and Blue bought a few weeks ago.

 

"Thanks," Adam mutters distractedly, as Ronan disappears into the bathroom. "I'm just finishing up this last bit of notes." Adam knows he's more likely to be able to finish studying if he gives Ronan a time frame.

 

"Gansey was more nosey than usual when I left tonight," Ronan mentions when Adam has finished and changing out of his clothes. He goes to wash his hands again; they still smell like motor oil. "I just told him to come out with whatever the hell he was stewing over."

 

Adam pulls a shirt over his head. Ronan reaches over from the side of bed and places his hand over Adams hip, over a scar there from when he had been pushed off the back step and hit the corner of the patio table. He had needed 8 stitches.

 

"He was annoyed that we hadn't told him, and I said he needed his head checked if he thought all of us were going to have some group confession about everyone's feelings," Ronan rolled his eyes. He looks up at Adam, shadow falling on his face from where Adam is blocking the light, his cheekbones defined and dusted with light freckles. Ronan is striking even when he is not trying, lying in his boxer briefs with mismatched socks on.

 

"I'm sure Gansey would love that," Adam shakes his head. "I'm surprised he waited that long. Blue conned me into it weeks ago, but she more or less talked at me than with me about it."

 

"He wanted to know my intentions with you," Ronan informs him, and Adam cannot refrain from rolling his eyes. He goes to flick the light and crawls in beside Ronan, tangling their feet together. It's colder now, but Ronan emits enough heat for the both of them.

 

"I'm sure you told him they were entirely honorable," Adam snorts. Ronan leans over him, cupping his face and bringing him closer, his eyes shining in the darkness.

 

"Of course," Ronan laughs. "I never lie."

 

-

 

Gansey has been gunning to go on a hunch that would have led them trekking west through the Virginia forests, but three days after class let's out for winter break, it snows heavily, and places a damper in his plans. He stirs grumpily over this, wanting to test out a Glendower theory that he has been reading up on for weeks, but as he was Gansey, he conceded that no such trip could happen with the storm progressing as it did.

 

It’s only a handful of days before Christmas, and they sat piled around the television at Monmouth, this time watching the Claymation _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindee_ r, because it was Noah's favorite. Earlier they had watched _Elf_ , and before that, suffered through a movie called _The Family Stone_ , because it was Blue's contribution and which actually turned to be very humbling towards the end. Adam was sitting on one end of the couch, Gansey on the other. Blue took up residence in the giant, over stuffed recliner, which dwarfed her with its impressive arms. It was the newest addition to Monmouth when Blue had insisted they couldn't _all_ sit on the couch at the same time.

 

Ronan sat below Adam on the floor with Noah, feet crossed at the ankle. He had been wearing the same pair of sweats for two days now. Adam sat very still with his forearm bracing the edge of the couch. Every now and then, Ronan would lean back far enough so that the crown of his head would touch Adam's skin. It made the hair on his forearm stand up slightly, electrifying a shiver down his spine. He wouldn’t have guessed Ronan knew anything about subtly - and maybe he doesn't. Maybe Ronan doesn't want to do anything else but gently bump the back of his head against Adam, a simple reminder, _hello, I am here._

 

They all should leave by the time the last film ends - the snow is getting worse, and Adam still doesn't know if work has been cancelled tomorrow or not, but Gansey finds _Its A Wonderful Life_ on the few cable channels it has and no one makes a move for the door.

 

Gansey drives Blue home in the suburban because he, in a predictable yet efficient move, had his car snow tired the week before. He bid Adam and Ronan a Merry Christmas, his wire glasses sitting low on his long nose, his golden hair tucked beneath his hat. He looks like a vision of James Dean himself, if James Dean wore sensible snow shoes and monogrammed down jackets.

 

"I'll see you after Christmas," Gansey says, as Blue fits her feet into large bright green snow boots. He fixes a stare on the back of Ronan's head from where he's disappearing into his own room. "Behave yourselves!"

 

The only response he gets is a derisive snort from Ronan and the fluttering of wings from Chainsaw, deep in his bedroom.

 

Adam smiles because he can't help himself. "Happy Christmas, then," he waved half-heartedly.

 

Blue flings herself into his arms, smelling like floral detergent and the sugar cookies she brought. "Merry Christmas, Adam Parrish," she smiles, her cheek presses against his. Her skin is reminds him of the texture of rose petals, impossibly soft and delicate. He buries his nose in her hair and inhales.

 

"You too," Adam says. They part, Gansey is watching them thoughtfully. Adam knows that it isn't jealousy or scrutiny but a sense of fullness that Gansey feels; he is most comfortable when he has everyone under his roof, his will, and his thumb. He is their king. He wants to take care of them, but being Gansey, the friends he chose are immune to help and difficult in their own ways. As much as Gansey wants to give Adam, Adam will not take it. He has to earn it himself.

 

Ronan and he end up walking back to St Agnes. Ronan isn't Gansey; he doesn't do the responsible thing like snow proof his tires, and the BMW isn't fit to drive if they don't want to send themselves skidding into a ravine somewhere and dying of hypothermia. Ronan lights a cigarette and wraps his scarf farther around his neck, his hood up to protect his head. He looks like a young God, surrounded by all this whiteness, this startling clarity, the stark contrast. Ronan hasn't known anything but darkness for so long and it shows.

 

"What are you staring at, Adam?" Ronan asks, smoke unfurling from his mouth. His lips curl into a smile; good natured, teasing, even happy. Adam realises with an uneasy turn in his gut that he is so endeared towards this image of Ronan that his hands are shaking a little, like a head rush.

 

For a moment the only sound is their feet trudging through the snow. Then he asks, "You remember the first time you saw snow?"

 

Ronan nods, eyes turned up in a smile still. "Yeah. You?"

 

Adam nods. He had been 8, and his father had passed out on their front step after drinking himself into a stupor that Christmas morning. He remembers his mother, black hair braided down her back, shawl twisted around her shoulders as she tried to drag him inside. She had snowflakes falling like a crown in her hair.

 

" _Adawi_ ," she had called, "come help your mama. Daddy is very sick, and needs to be inside."

 

"What was it like?" Adam asks him. "Do you remember what you felt?"

 

Ronan considers this, shooting Adam a sceptical look as he took a drag off his cigarette. "It was just before Christmas. I must have been seven because Matthew was still running around in diapers. My father was away in the Czech Republic on business, and mother kept us home from the last week of school. I remember scooping the snow up in my hands and watching it fall away like dust and tasting it. How it tasted like earth, and magic, and dreams all at the same time. I thought it was the end of night as I knew it. It's never truly dark when it snows, is it?"

 

Adam shakes his head. He thinks of Ronan at seven, bright eyed and ruddy cheeked, his tiny tongue sticking out to taste the snow. He sidles up next to him and loops their arms as together as they walk; the streets are barren and lifeless, and Henrietta might as well be a ghost town for all that it matters to them. Their universe exists only here, time does not move forward, all they can see is their past and the stretch of street before them.

 

Adam wants to ask: _what is it about you that makes me feel as if I'm caught on fire? How come I don't mind burning?_

 

He doesn't say that. Instead he twines their fingers together, slows their gait, and prays the road never ends for them. Ronan smells like smoke and spice, like the memory of a home he's never had; like a feeling he dares not name.

 

-

 

Christmas Eve morning arrives with more flurries. Ronan wakes Adam by kissing the underside of his jaw, and Adam opens his eyes to find snow crowding the corners of his window in St Agnes and the hot length of Ronan's body over his. He feels his morning wood sitting heavy on his hip and the friction of Ronan dragging against his boxers make him arch up into it.

 

Ronan spreads Adam's legs and crouches between them, unable to keep his eyes off Adam's, sleepy and half dazed by the onslaught of touch this early in the morning. Adam's hands scrabble for purchase as Ronan slides his boxers off, his dick red and swollen against his skin.

 

"Look at you," Ronan says simply, his voice held in a hush. He ghosts a breath over Adam's skin, making it goose bump and tingle. He smiles, and it makes Adam's heart clench. "You're _wanton_."

 

"Good to see you've been on your vocabulary," Adam snaps back, but isn't rewarded with a snarky response - instead, Ronan fits his mouth over the tip of Adam's dick.

 

He feels as if Ronan is sucking the life out of Adam, who can't bite back the groan that leaves his mouth even though he tries. Ronan leans down further on the bed and it creaks with his efforts. He throws one of Adam's legs over his shoulder, taking Adam deeper into his mouth and closing his eyes. His eyelashes create a dark shadow on his cheeks, and Adam feels perverse at never realising it until now.

 

"Oh," he grunts, like the wind has been knocked out of him. He can feel his orgasm build - embarrassingly enough - in the base of his spine as Ronan licks along the vein and uses his hand to pull Adam off in tandem. This boy is going to kill him. Adam might be already dead. His hand scrabbled to grab onto something new - anything - and finds the freckled surface of Ronan's shoulder. He takes hold, and doesn't let go.

 

Ronan doesn't hold off until he's sure Adam's just about to come, and then he pulls off, mouth slick and obscene, jerking Adam off until his back arches and he's two seconds from coming before Ronan dips down and bites into the meat of Adam's thigh. The enormity of his orgasm and the pain in his leg is a combination that nearly whites out Adam's vision until he's shuddering unattractively, fist in his mouth to stifle the sound.

 

When he can regain some feeling, Ronan is lying on his thigh which cheek pressed up against his skin, looking as dazed as Adam feels.

 

Adam shifts his leg off Ronan's shoulder, acutely embarrassed, and Ronan sidles up slightly farther into his side. Adam leans down and kisses him. Ronan's arms come up to clutch at Adam, and he takes the opportunity to pin Ronan's arms above his head, to breathe over his neck and nipples, until he's bucking up in Adam with little relief. Adam knows Ronan could overpower him, but he doesn't, and it's significant, that he lets him do this. It's Ronan's way of telling him something.

 

Adam reaches down under the duvet with one hand and pumps at Ronan's cock, slowly at first, and then faster when he feels the tell tale shake of Ronan's thighs. It isn't until he's sure that he's about to come that he pulls off completely, shimming down and replacing his hand with his mouth.

 

The heat of his tongue must be too much, because Ronan curses, loudly, and with a final shake comes in Adam's mouth. It's hot and he might choke on it, but instead he keeps his tongue flat against the tip and milks him through it as best he can. He's only done this once before; a few nights ago when Ronan had come over with his skin still damp from a shower and fresh-from-the-wash sweats on.

 

"Oh my god, Adam," Ronan says his name like a curse. "Christ, you swallowed." He sounds amazed and a little out of breath.

 

Adam wipes his mouth and curls up next to him, pulling the duvet rightly around them both. "Merry Christmas."

 

Ronan laughs, giddy and lovely, his entire face breaking into his smile, eyes scrunching at the corners. He rolls closer, smelling like sex and sweat and himself. Adam feels Ronan bury his nose in Adam's neck, and then his breathing evens out, until it's slowed into a slumber; when Adam peeks, Ronan is fast asleep.

 

It is almost dark when they wake again. Adam checks the clock: nearly four. He shakes Ronan gently, sliding to the edge of his bed. The floor is torturously cold compared to his sheets.

 

"You have to go soon," Adam tells him when he doesn't stir. He can imagine Ronan is in no hurry to rush to meet Declan for Christmas Eve dinner in DC, but Ronan has little choice in the matter. The incentive Declan held over him was how disappointed Matthew would be if he didn't show. It was only too easy, Adam though disparagingly, how Declan could play his brothers into his hand.

 

They stumble together, bare feet tripping over ankles on the dusty hardwood, until Adam leads them into the shower and turns it on. Ronan shakes his head like a wet dog.

 

Adam washes his hair; Ronan steals some of the suds off his head and uses it to scrub over his hair to his nape. They clean without fuss, chasing away the remnants of last night and this morning, Ronan dropping the soap and pulling Adam close to kiss him, water dripping off his eyelashes and down their cheeks.

 

"You're going to midnight mass?" Adam asks him as they dress after. He's wearing wool socks and long underwear and Ronan's jumper; he's not going anywhere tonight.

 

Ronan nods. He looks sleek in a black button down and slacks, and Adam can’t help but think of a tamed horse. "Dinner then Mass. You could come with me, you know. I won't drive us into the river."

 

"I'm going to stay here," Adam says. They've had this conversation many times leading up to Christmas Eve - but he doesn't want to intrude, and even so, he doesn't think he'd enjoy the tense spectacle that is the Lynch Brothers. Not that he'd ever say that to Ronan. He braves a small smile, wrapping his arms around one of his knees.

 

Ronan shrugs. "Sure," he says, though he doesn't look convinced by Adam's smile. "It doesn't feel right to leave you here on Christmas Eve."

 

"Christmas isn't so important to me," Adam excuses, though he's oddly touched by the sentiment. A flicker of contrariness crosses Ronan’s face before it disappears back into an impassive gaze.

 

Ronan comes to stand before him, bending down and kissing Adam; soundly, his tongue tasting like mint and - though it is Adam's overactive imagination - Adam himself. Adam leans up into the kiss, holding himself steady on Ronan's arms.

 

"When you pray, who do you pray to?" He asks.

 

Roma smiles, thumb brushing over Adam's temple. " _St. Jude_ , of course."

 

-

 

Its hours before Adam sleeps. He spends most of the night on Gansey’s borrowed laptop listening to podcasts before he tries and gives up on doing any preparatory reading for the next semester. His eyes ache, and he sits idly beside his window watching the snow pass in front of him, oddly content at his own beckoning sorrow. Inside his empty stomach, he longs for something he doesn’t want to accept.

 

He can’t help but think of his mother. It is his first Christmas alone, and he pictures the ratty trailer with the Christmas lights that never truly get taken down, the small fake tree she had bought once when he was 13 only for it to be broken by his father a year later when he fell over it drunk. She smelt like old leather and pomegranate oil; incense she burned in the bathroom when only Adam was home. The sound of kitty food being poured in the evening for their cat before she went to bed. Her morning cigarette. The television shows she liked to watch when her back bothered her and she’d pop Vicodin all day and watch with glassed over eyes at the TV.

 

Adam never made any time for her like he should have. He tried, desperately, to be a good son; to honor thy father and mother, but he had failed: it was obvious that he was not wanted in the way that Gansey, or Blue, or even Ronan was wanted. He wonders vaguely at Noah’s parentage and again feels ashamed for never asking. Between Glendower, and ley lines, and near death experiences, it never seemed the right time to inquire.

 

No matter. He knew she loved him, her only son, and that she was not at fault. Had she tried to protect him, it might have been worse. This was something he could not explain to his friends. They do not wear their childhoods in quite the same way he does.

 

A song on Ronan’s mixtape breaks his line of thought - it was a remix of a song he had heard before, years ago, at the record store he and Blue now frequent when they both have a free day. It was soft; melodic, and lugubrious - something that tugged at Adam’s heart even though he knew it was only a song.

 

_And at once I knew, I was not magnificent -_

 

Adam threw on his jeans over his long thermal underwear and his snow boots over thick woollen socks Blue had given him as an early Christmas present. They were handmade, and required no expense of her’s - 300 Fox Way had a bewildering amount of yarn around, and she had just learned how to knit. He grabbed his keys and his hat, shoving it haphazardly on his head.

 

Outside is a white vastness like Adam has never seen. It hasn’t snowed in Virginia like this for years - only a few inches of wet flurries that soon washed out with the street dirt and rain water. Henrietta, eternally grey and absent of any its’ inhabitants this early on Christmas day, before the sun has risen, seems like an abandoned movie set. He knows right away that driving was out of the question so he began the cold and silent trudge through the city, his foot tracks the only imprints in the snow.

 

By the time he reaches the edge of the trailer park, Adam’s lips are nearly blue and his teeth rattle in his skull. He can’t feel his nose, his fingers damp and tucked up into his armpits. One of his socks kept slipping down his foot. Now it is brighter, but not bright enough: the trailer park seemed to have a cloud of dust hanging lower over it, perpetually hazy and grim.

 

He stood at the opposite edge of the street and watched his old trailer - the only home he had ever known, really, until recently, and even sometimes St. Agnes felt nothing more than an old Church which he inhabited occasionally - Adam never knew if he would ever have a place to call home. He tries not to dwell on it.

 

He checks the time, a beaten leather watch he had bought at a thrift store when he was fourteen and didn’t own a cell phone to tell time. That much has not changed. The clock hand moved slowly from 7:15 to 7:20. He stood still just out of sight behind a tall shrub that badly needed hedging. A dog barks somewhere far away, and it still spooks him.

 

He isn’t sure why he is here up until he sees her, and then it becomes clear again. He aches like an upset stomach, queasy even in his head. She is wearing the small ratty bathrobe she has worn his entire childhood, cinched around her waist, the floral pattern near the hem greyish and thread barren; she is clumsy in tall boots as she trudges to the end of the road and towards the mailboxes where she goes to have her morning cigarette, a single reprieve from Adam’s father. Like clockwork, his mother never fails to follow the sad routine that has dictated most of her life.

 

He checks the windows of the trailer for sight of his father, the plastic cling they used to keep the heat in peeling pathetically at the corners. There is no sight of him. Heart beating wildly in his throat, hands still tucked deep in his coat, he crosses the road and into view, standing before his mother. She does not seem him at first, and then when she turns to catch his profile in the corner of her eye, she is so startled she drops her cigarette in the snow. It fizzles out and becomes wet.

 

“Adawi,” she says in a hushed, surprised voice. He trembles as he steps closer to her. Seeing her face again reminds him how truly alike they look: though his skin not as dark as her, and his hair wavy and unruly compared to the straight black sheet that hangs down her back, their eyes held such a unabashed resemblance that no one could ever deny that she was his mother. They were dark brown and almond shaped, narrow and distrusting, reluctant to relay relief or happiness. The quiet discontent that Adam carried around with him was a trait bestowed upon him from her.

 

“Momma,” Adam says, “How are you?” He can’t think of another thing to say. After it left his mouth, it seems hardly appropriate.

 

She looks at him fully. The lines in her face seemed more pronounced, her mouth a thin, tired line. “What are you doing here?” she asked, and then sighed. “I’m fine, honey.”

 

“I just wanted to see you,” Adam explains lamely, “I wanted to make sure with my own eyes. I think a lot about - I think a lot about what I did.”

 

“You didn’t do anything,” she says. She coughs but it sounds like weeping. He stands there with his hands by his sides, limp and unmoving. His mother takes a moment to turn away, staring down the white blanket road and then back at him. There are snowflakes in her braid. When she turns back to him, she says, “You were a good boy. Now you are _a-wi-na_ ,” she says. A young man.

 

He is taller than her by a foot. He remembers when his mother was the universe, and he a small, orbiting planet. It feels very far away from him now. He does not remember when his mother became small and brittle.

 

“Honestly, honey, its okay that you left. There was nothing good for you here,” she says, lighting another cigarette. She regards him with one eye. “I will never forgive myself for letting your father treat you the way he did.”

 

“Momma -” he starts, because whatever he thought would come of this, he didn’t want it to be this. His tongue feels too large in his throat. His eyelashes are wet. He swallows thickly.

 

She touches his arm, and it is he who startles then. Her hand looks dwarfed. “You are my only son. My most beloved. I know I never made it easier for you, I never could be a good mother. But you know -,” she swallowed, smoke billowing, squinting eyes narrowed. “You know.”

 

“ _Gv-ge-yu-hi_ ,” Adam tells her earnestly. She nodded, taking his hand and folding his fingers towards his palm. She brought it to her heart, just inside her robe. Their eyes closed, and he felt for a moment that he could take her anywhere - they could go far away, change their names, and start again.

 

The Henrietta trailer park is still there when he opens them again. His mother is still only his mother. He must leave her. Soon he will go far away. He won’t look back when he does, and she knows this, and she loves him despite it.

 

“Thank you for coming to see your old lady,” she says gruffly, and lets go of his hand. Her second cigarette is finished now, she drops it in the snow between them. The hem of her robe is soaked and sad looking, and a deep, irrepressible pang of pity rings through him. She pats his face and steps around him.

 

“I applied to Harvard,” he blurts out. She turns. “I might not get in. But I could, maybe.” he says.

 

A ghost of a smile appears on her face, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. “They’d be stupid not to take you, child.”

 

She leaves him there in the snow, trudging back to the trailer where Adam was trapped for so many years, beaten down and pulled back up by the skin of his neck.

 

When he walks back to St. Agnes, he does not feel the cold biting at his teeth.

 

-

 

January throws him back into the throng of school work and college applications, preparing for exams and upcoming events at Aglionby. The snow melts and floods the town, leaving thick muddy marks on the sides of the BMW when Ronan drives them to class. Adam will not say it, but he’s grateful for the chance to distract himself. He can’t say he’s surprised he’s not a holiday person.

 

It's only by the end of January in which he's called back into Ms. Bell's office that brings all levels of reality crashing down on him. Of course he had been thinking of college again now that Christmas was gone and done with; Gansey had applied to Georgetown and American University which was to be expected of him. Blue had even shared with Ronan that while she had applied to University of Mary Washington and Virginia State, she had also sent in a spur of the moment application to Bryn Mawr outside of Philly - and seemed strangely sheepish for admitting that.

 

He hadn’t told anyone except his mother that he had applied - it seemed foolish to, especially seeing as he might not get in and that anything after that would become a disappointment for his friends to try and placate. It was easy to forget about the application for Harvard because it meant ignoring the guilt that followed suite for not telling anyone; for not telling Ronan especially.

 

He hadn’t asked him where if or where he was applying to college - a part of him didn’t want to know the answer. Everything about Ronan seemed rooted in Henrietta, the Barns, and the earth here; Adam couldn’t see how Ronan, who never had a penchant for academics anyway, going away to a university to study. It was topic which lies beneath them, threatening to surface whenever the future was brought up. Ronan was comfortable reliving the better stories of his past, when Niall was alive and his mother wasn’t reduced to a maternal dream; when his family was whole.

 

Adam’s family never knew wholeness if it broke down their front door. The only direction Adam ever looks is the future.

 

“Mr. Parrish,” Ms. Bell says, and then corrects herself, “Adam.”

 

“You said you had something for me?” Adam asks, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. His hands are clammy and cold, and he wants desperately to tuck them out of sight. Instead he sits down in the armchair opposite her.

 

“I am under the impression that you have no permanent address at the moment,” Ms. Bell looks at him steadily, and waits for him to correct her. When he doesn’t, she continues. “So I placed the return address to your application to Harvard as the Aglionby’s.”

 

From her drawer she retrieves another manila envelope, with the same emblem. The return address is registered as Cambridge, Massachusetts. Gingerly she hands it over to him like it’s a gold torch or a beacon, and in a lot of ways it is.

 

The folder feels heavy in his hands. Ms. Bell’s cheeks resemble a deep puce color from where she is holding her breath, scrunched up in excitement, teeth set on her bottom lip.

 

“Open it, Adam,” she prods gently, and he does.

 

-

 

It takes him a week to say anything to them. At first he hadn’t believed it; the acceptance, the beginnings of a new journey onward and outward from Henrietta. He dared not breathe a sigh of relief, think, finally, _I’m leaving_ , because it all seemed too good to be true. The other shoe would drop somehow.

 

Everything happened very fast after that. First came his acceptance, then Ms. Bell helped him fill out his financial aid, and that was received by her a week later detailing that he was entitled to a free ride to Harvard on the basis of his extenuating circumstances and his financial background. Ms. Bell said that sometimes a student must go through more channels: an application, a phone interview, a second essay, a wait list. But not Adam. He stayed awake at night wondering if they had gotten him confused with another Adam Parrish somewhere, who really deserved it, and he would arrive next year with his measly bag of belongings only to find someone else occupying his place.

 

“Alright,” Ronan broke Adam out of his reverie the second Monday after Adam had found out his acceptance. They were outside a grocery store in Henrietta, where paper hearts and bright red candy decorated the outsides of the windows to advertise the upcoming holiday. One of the signs read: _forever yours, I’ll be true._

 

Adam didn’t take his eyes off of it for a moment. Then he turned like he was sleepwalking, slowly and disconnectedly, to face Ronan.

 

“You have to tell me what the hell is going on with you,” Ronan says, but he hurries on before Adam can say anything. “I’m not an idiot, Adam. You’re being distant, all spaced out - more than usual, at least, and you keep disappearing when I’m talking to you.”

 

Adam frowns guiltily. Something sparks in his gut; he wonders if Ronan is leading up to breaking it off with him, if his behavior is so obtrusively annoying and vacant that he realized there was nothing left to salvage. Adam decides instantly, though it physically, pains him, that he _would_ understand. It wouldn’t ruin their friendship or the group. He wouldn’t let it affect the others. He would swallow the wound like he swallowed everything else, and let it hurt himself instead.

 

They had never defined themselves as _together,_ but Adam knew, deep down, that is what they unequivocally are. He was dating Ronan Lynch. They drove to class together and slept most nights in St. Agnes together. Sometimes when it was really late Ronan would take them out to the 24 hour Ihop off the highway and they’d sit in the back, curled up in the booth together, drinking black coffee and sharing a stack of pancakes. They did things together that the rest of the world didn’t know about. Ronan’s affection was a force to reckon with, and he directed it only at Adam.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, when he realises Ronan is waiting for him to say something. “I have a lot on my mind.”

 

Ronan sighs, hand hitting the top of the steering wheel. He makes an abortive gesture towards the sidewalk, struggling for words and not looking at Adam directly. “Look, if there is something going on, something you feel like you can’t tell me, then -”

 

“Ronan,” Adam cuts in. His voice is forceful enough that Ronan turns to him. “Listen. I’m just stressed. I’m not - it has nothing to do with you, I promise. Now please, let’s go, before we’re late.”

 

Something in Ronan’s mouth softens, and it's enough that Adam leans over the console - passer-by’s be damned - and kisses the side of his mouth, fingers on the back of his neck beneath the collar of his school shirt.  Ronan seems appeased, but Adam is not. He can’t help but feel that there’s a reason he’s not telling Ronan, Gansey, Blue or Noah about the acceptance letter, and it feels explicitly like lying.

 

-

 

Of course, the truth comes out that day after school at Monmouth. Blue arrives last from Henrietta High, hair damp from the rain and sticking to the side of her face. She throws her things down near Gansey’s bed and kicks off her shoes as Noah makes room for her on the sofa. Adam’s in the middle of finishing off his calculus practice that he started during his free period, while Ronan balanced Chainsaw on his forearm, homework long forgotten at his feet.

 

Gansey comes in, flustered but delight evident in the way he smiles down at them. “I think I have the right to be offended, Adam Parrish, that you’ve kept such news from us,” he beams, and Adam feels something distinctly sink in his stomach.

 

He narrows his eyes, looking up, “Who told you?”

 

But Gansey only looks positively gleeful. “Ms. Bell knows that we are friends, Adam, and she felt - _rightly_ _so_ \- that I too should be excited for you - “

 

“Excited for what reason?” Noah asks, looking wearily from Adam to Gansey. Blue pops her bubble-gum and presses a toe into Adam’s calve, as if disapproving that he kept secrets from them.

 

“Oh no, Adam should be the one to break the news,” Gansey insists, and for a moment reminds him of a blustery fatherly figure, tapping them good naturedly on the head with a rolled newspaper. He sits at the end of his bed, still fresh in his Aglionby uniform, and waits for Adam to begin.

 

Adam hardly looks up from his homework. He definitely does not look at Ronan, who has gone completely still. He feels blood flush his face, and knows that he is blushing as much as his skin allows: an unpleasant, deep, clay color that goes from his cheeks to his neck.

 

“I got into Harvard,” Adam mutters, and then feels himself shrug, unhappy with all the attention directed on him. “They accepted me, I mean.”

 

“Adam!” Blue all but shrieks, springing from her place on the sofa to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “That is magnificent, this is incredible, -”

 

“Of course, we knew that you would get into anywhere you wanted,” Noah rolls his eyes, there’s enough pallor to his skin that Adam can tell he looks pleased, and he smiles.

 

“You’re going to love Cambridge, Adam,” Gansey beams, “It is a fantastic little town, and has some incredible antique shops…”

 

-

 

Ronan drives him home.

 

The car ride is silent, and Adam fidgets nervously with the frayed end of his sweater sleeve. He feels, horrifically, the way he used to with his father sometimes riding in the car; reeking of guilt, and waiting for the first strike. Ronan would never touch him that way, and yet he cannot help but expect it. He feels like a Pavlovian dog. All the bells are whistling.

 

They roll into the back parking lot of St. Agnes, the steeple partly covered in evening February fog. Ronan parks and sits, rubbing his jaw with his hand.

 

“Are you...going to come up?” Adam feels stupid for asking this. He’s never had to before. Usually Ronan is the first one out and up the stairs, unlocking the front door before Adam can even grab the rest of his school work from the back to close the car door.

 

Ronan stifles a sigh. And then slowly, he shakes his head.

 

“Right,” Adam fumbles with the strap on his bag. “Right.”

 

“Adam, wait,” Ronan says when he goes to open the door. “Wait.”

 

“Okay,” he says, nodding, “I’m waiting.”

 

“I’m just,” there’s a strange way in which Ronan says this - an inner struggle inside of him that Adam cannot see. Finally he rounds on Adam and fixes him with a hard look. “You could have just told me. That you applied.”

 

Adam frowns. “I didn’t realise I had to tell you everything.”

 

Ronan laughs derisively like he expected this. “I _know_ , Adam. You don’t. You're free to do whatever the fuck you want.”

 

“Why are you angry about it?” Adam asks, feeling cornered. He knows why but is unable to put words to it; he wants to make Ronan say it. He wants Ronan to blame him for it.

 

"Because!" Ronan expels, and then shakes his head. "I'm not - it's - you _lied_ to my fucking face."

 

"I didn't -”

 

"You did," He interrupts. "This morning. I asked you and you said nothing."

 

Adam says nothing to that. A tick is working itself in Ronan's jaw and the car feels suddenly stifling.

 

Adam grits his teeth. "I wasn't ready. I didn't - I didn't know how to say it."

 

"Why?" Ronan throws back to back, quick, "Because you think I'd be annoyed? Or because you've already decided you're going?"

 

Adam says nothing and Ronan slams his hand on the steering wheel once, cursing under his breath. "You are going."

 

"Of course I am," Adam snaps. "You're being an asshole."

 

"You don't know what I'm being right now," Ronan all but snarls. "You have everything under lock and key. I thought you - I thought all this time you were letting me in. But you weren't - it's the same shit, with you. All about control. All about getting the fuck out of Henrietta."

 

Something cold sinks in his chest then, and he shakes his head, trying to clear his throat. "Can you sit here and blame me for wanting to get out of this fucking town?"

 

The heat goes out of Ronan, and a grim, cold facade replaces his usual expression.

 

"No," he finally says softly. "I can't blame you."

 

"Then why are you being like this?" If his voice tremors, Ronan makes no notion he's noticed.

 

Ronan shrugs. "I guess I just thought I would have been the first to know."

 

"I'm sorry to disappoint," Adam says coldly, hating the sharp twang of his voice, the accent hanging in between them. This time he does open the door. He gets out and looks back at Ronan, but Ronan isn't looking at him. He slams the door, and it feels final.

 

The shake in his hands as he opens the door to his room above the church had nothing to do with guilt, Adam tells himself, but he can't quite get the wounded look on Ronan's face out of his head.

 

-

 

Briefly Adam wakes up the next morning and forgets about their fight. Ronan’s scarf is hanging on the corner of the bathroom door, his texts for class sitting on the rickety chair Adam uses to study at the desk in the corner. A box of fairy lights sitting on the floor next to their shoes which he had bought after the ones that Blue had given Adam had finally flickered and died. Everything seems in place as it was before.

 

But then Adam remembers; it happens as he sits up and the world rights itself again. He shakes his head as if trying to physically clear the repeats of last night out of his head: the shouting, the way Ronan had smacked his hand on the steering wheel in rage, or misplaced sadness, or the frustration that comes with being unable to articulate himself.

 

How Adam had waited, coiled, ready to attack, and finally struck him with incredulity in his voice: _I’m sorry to disappoint._ As if Ronan had been stupid enough to think he’d been included in any of Adam’s decisions. He knew it was a wicked thing to suggest; he knew it was terrible to poke at the soft underbelly of Ronan’s insecurities. And yet he’d done it anyway.

 

_I guess I just thought I would have been the first to know._

 

Adam understands now, and he feels shame at not having understood and angry for feeling shameful. It piles on again, the terror of Ronan, and of him, and what it means for them to be together. It means fighting. It means anger. It means trying against the curve.

 

Under the hot spray of shower he thinks again. _I guess I just thought I would have been the first to know._ Fuck this. Ronan thinks he has Adam pinned down, all figured out, and maybe he does. So why had he been so surprised? It should have been obvious that Adam would have applied out of Virginia, that he would have taken the first opportunity to leave - and yet - Ronan had been angry at this. It wasn’t fair of him. Ronan had been given opportunities to desert this godforsaken town - all dirt and dust and skeletons they both want to bury - and he’s never taken it.

 

In anger Adam thumps his hand against the tile until his hand hurts and then he hits it again. He was a coward. Ronan was a coward. But even as he thought it he knew it wasn’t true: they were trying not to be cowards, because cowardice was the easy thing. They slipped up, argued. They’d make it better. It had to be better.

 

He waited outside St. Agnes with his keys in hand, remembering when the last time he even drove the hondoyota anywhere. He couldn’t think of a time. He waits half a second - knowing that Ronan may not come get it at all. It would be fine. Maybe the space is needed.

 

Five minutes before their usual departure time, the BMW pulls into the back parking lot of St. Agnes, and something in Adam gives way; his hands, tucked churlishly in his jacket pockets, carry a slight tremor. Ronan sits in the front and stares at him through the windshield, chin tucked, thermos in hand.

 

Adam opens the door, throws his books in the back, and crawls over the front seat, his scarf touching the console, and pulls Ronan in for a kiss. He pours what he needs to in it: anger, apology, forgiveness, embarrassment. He takes what he needs from Ronan, clutching at his jaw to hold him in place, unable to reciprocate with the coffee in his hand; the smallest noise escapes his mouth when Adam nips at his bottom lip between his teeth.

 

They break apart and breathe, the car still running, the door still open and chiming.

 

“Let’s not do that again,” Adam says, running his thumb underneath Ronan’s eye, touching him tenderly in a way he’s learned to when he wants to make all the bones in Ronan’s body become supple and malleable. He looks down at the red of Ronan’s mouth and sucks him down for another kiss, Ronan licking the inside of his teeth, arm coming up to clutch at his elbow as he neck strains back.

 

Adam slouches back in his seat, his hard on visible in his school trousers. He reaches over, tucking four of his fingers between the waist of Ronan’s pants and his skin, which is burning. Ronan barely has time to set the coffee down before Adam grasps him, cupping his balls as best he can with the limited space he has.  Ronan shoots his a weary look and groans, leaning back in his seat.

 

He bares his neck, a pale slice of skin visible from his jaw to his collar. He looks debauched, and feels similar; his legs are shaking as he lifts his tailbone slightly to give Adam more room to move his hand.

 

“You better start driving,” Adam orders him, voice betraying how dangerous and wrung out he feels; as if they just missed the cliff by a hair, hanging on to the foundations as they knew it by their fingernails. Ronan shudders, and puts the car in reverse, peeling back and closing the passenger door affectively. Adam slows his hand but only incrementally, a shiver running through Ronan’s entire body.

 

“We’ll be late otherwise,” he says.

 

-

 

Though the tension has fizzled between them, Adam still feels uneasy in the following weeks. Ronan doesn’t bring it up again, but it is obvious that something is gnawing away at the both of them - nights staying up later together, touching and laughing, become fewer; some mornings Adam drives himself to school, and more than once Ronan opts to spend the night at Monmouth, alone. Ronan doesn’t ask about Harvard, and Adam, helpless, offers no new information.

 

He knows he’s too scared to confront it - whatever is eating at them - because every time he thinks he’ll finally just have to say something, he looks over at Ronan and is overcome by that terror again. Being with him is like nothing else he’s ever known: riding fast in the dark with the lights off, eyes closed, heart caught in your mouth. Whatever he wants to say never comes: if there is even the chance it could cause another fight, Adam won’t take the risk.

 

Never before has he ever reflected on the past - shudders to think of the days spent locked up in his room in the trailer, waiting for his father to fall asleep - but now, in the last few days of March, he can’t help but think back to November, when him and Ronan were brand new and fumbling, hurtling at a startling speed towards each other; consumed with the feelings inside their own dark heads. The terror of knowing Ronan Lynch. The terror of loving him too.

 

Strangely he thinks of the months leading up to now as encapsulated: when Adam was with Ronan, nothing in the world could touch them. Now that glass is breaking, and he can feel the leaks. He doesn’t know if he’s losing Ronan or if it’s the other way around; if he’s becoming more distant, if he returns Ronan’s smiles less often now.

 

Their futures becoming eminently clear as acceptance packages roll through Aglionby, and at Blue’s high school, too. Gansey is accepted in Georgetown, which comes as no surprise to anyone, and wagers that he’ll be able to commute back to Henrietta still in search of his long lost Welsh King. He shows several routes, train, car, or otherwise, that links Washington to Cambridge, Mas, and something in Adam twinges pleasantly: Gansey was the type of friend he could foresee having for years to come.

 

By the end of the month Blue has been accepted with a merit scholarship to Bryn Mawr up in Philadelphia, and Maura and the rest of 300 Fox Way throw her a small celebration. Adam sits with a piece of cake and a strange lump of what appears to be vegan poppy seed pie, and amidst the cheering and shouting in the house, he makes his way out into the small back garden to find Ronan sucking down a cigarette.

 

“Hey,” Adam says, clearing his throat. “I brought you some cake.”

 

Ronan shoots him a small smile, and it still makes Adam’s heart flutter embarrassingly in his chest. They sit on a creaky, weathered porch swing, warped like the rest of the house. He looks breath-taking and somber at the same time, and Adam’s breath catches uneasily as they sit, until Ronan puts out his cigarette in the small ashtray by the ceramic frog and turns to him.

 

“Thanks,” Ronan mutters, but he doesn’t touch the cake. Instead he rubs a hand over his mouth, staring again out into the garden. “I don’t trust that lumpy shit Orla makes.”

 

“I don’t blame you,” Adam smiles, but it falls when he asks, “What’s going on, Ronan?”

 

“Nothing that I’m aware of,” Ronan shrugs, and yet his demeanor is off kilter and sour.

 

“Come on,” Adam rolls his eyes, “You’ve been a moody shit for weeks. Moodier than usual.”

 

“Look, I’m not,” Ronan bites back, and then he sighs, rolling his shoulders back. “Everything is fucking changing. What we know now is over. Gansey and now Blue, not that I mind the little maggot is going away to Philly. And you…”

 

“We have to do this,” Adam reminds him, “You can apply still. You can go anywhere - all you have to do is -”

 

But Ronan shakes his head, “I already told you I don’t want to.”

 

Adam knows this; he redirects. “Gansey already has printed all the different driving routes - he’s already certain we can see each other on long weekends and during breaks. He’s determined,” Adam half laughs, but inside he’s saying: _we can make it work. We can make it work_.

 

Adam is not appeased by the following laugh that leaves Ronan. It seems hollow and exasperated, as if everything Adam is saying implied that he did not understand. Picking at his wristbands, Ronan says lowly, “It’s not that I’m not happy. Harvard is a big achievement for a nerd like you. It’s just…” he heaves a sigh. “I kept thinking we’d have more time.”

 

Adam feels his heart surge. He doesn’t like the way Ronan is talking - as if it was already over, as if Adam wasn’t going to leave until August - they had all summer. His hands starts to tremor, and he thinks for a moment to tuck them under his thighs, but he doesn’t.

 

He wants Ronan to see them shake. He wants Ronan to know how he makes Adam feel. For all the magic bestowed on him by Cabeswater and the sacrifice, he felt powerless. He was not magic in the same league that Ronan was; it was never in his blood.

 

“I don’t like this,” Adam says lamely, and Ronan looks to him for a second, the corners of his mouth turned downward. He nods in agreement, his gaze peering out into the garden thoughtfully.

 

Adam moves the cake and scoots down the bench until they’re touching, hip to hip, and wraps his arm around Ronan’s shoulders. He pulls him closer, expecting Ronan to resist - they did not express themselves like this outside of St. Agnes and the BMW, but he didn’t. If anything. Ronan collapsed against him, head on his shoulder. He presses his mouth to Ronan’s forehead, tired and true.

 

Time passes slowly before they part. Ronan sits up and regards Adam fully like he’s measuring up against him. With a furrow brow, he says, “Henrietta defines me. But it doesn’t define you.”

 

Ronan makes his way to leave then; the party is over for him. He never truly had anything to celebrate in the first place. Adam doesn’t know what to make of what he says until later, when it all crashes back upon him, curled up alone in his thin mattress in St. Agnes. He stifles for mouth and squeezes his eyes shut to stifle any noise that comes from him, but he’s gotten so good at practicing his silence, that his cries don’t make a sound.

 

-

 

By April, exams are looming as the finish line finally descends in their sight. It is the morning of their first final, in literature, that Adam finds himself in the front seat of the Pig. Gansey was not holding a thermos out for him, but a 3 dollar coffee he liked at the only trendy cafe in town that would make him a flat white, whatever that was.

 

“Ronan said he would meet us there,” Gansey says by way of explaining why he was picking him up. “I’m not sure he slept. He went to the Barnes before I even had a shower.”

 

“He better go to this exam,” Adam warned heavily, feeling anticipation growing in his gut. It was partly related to the stress of the upcoming final, and partly to do with Ronan. “We actually studied for it.”

 

Gansey hums disconcertedly, but says nothing more on the matter. Instead, he chooses a different venue of conversation, one which Adam did not see coming. “Ronan really cares for you, Adam.”

 

Silence hangs pregnant in the air for a moment, before Adam reluctantly grounds out, “I know that.”

 

Unperturbed but not looking at him, Gansey continues, “He would never want you to feel like he is standing in the way of you going to Harvard.”

 

“Yes,” Adam says again, “I’m aware.”

 

“He just - ” Gansey shrugs to himself as if having an internal debate. His wire frame glasses are high on his nose, and he looks the model picture of academia compared to Adam’s patchy Aglionby sweater and his second hand winter coat. “He has a difficult time accepting change.”

 

“What do you think he’s going to do, when we all leave?” Adam asks, a note of anger in his tone. “He’s not going to college. He certainly isn’t going to work. Doesn’t he realise that he can’t sit here stagnantly? He’ll _rot._ ”

 

Gansey considers this as Aglionby comes into view. Without agreeing to Adam’s sentiment - even though Adam knows they both know he’s right - he says, “There’s no use in trying to make Ronan do what he doesn’t want to do.”

 

“He feels obligated here,” Adam sighs. “He doesn’t want to leave Matthew.”

 

“He loves Matthew,” his voice is tired, betraying the tolls of insomnia that Gansey frequently struggles with. “His brother is his only tie to the Barns, to Henrietta. I think Ronan needs that more than we understand. Some things are down to matters of the family. Some things we cannot assume we know.”

 

Adam bites back a pithy retort, but what Gansey is saying is irritatingly true; they all know, perhaps Adam more than anyone. How could explain to anyone looking objectively into his life why he never felt he could leave the trailer park? How could he bother trying to articulate why his mother, growing up poor on a North Carolina reservation, had known only roughness her entire life? How does he express that he too, expects it, even when he knows it is wrong?

 

They find their exam, five minutes to the start time. Ronan is sitting in his usual seat behind Adam, looking worse for wear and wary. He doesn’t not say anything to them, and by the time Adam decides what he could possibly say to erase that look off his face, the clock chimes, and he picks up his pen.

 

-

 

Ronan surprises Adam by showing up later in the week one night. It was an unexpected April rainstorm, and Adam was studying for their Latin exam. It was the last one - and then - they were done. They were graduating. Between the magic of Cabeswater and _almost_ losing their lives a number of times, to funerals and driving to their deaths, Adam finds that the year passed in relative safety. Even Cabeswater pulls at him less; he feels the forest less.

 

The dream pool seems far away and long ago. Despite not being in immediate danger via many magical elements and creatures, the year itself did not feel peaceful. It felt like the terror of being with Ronan, of allowing himself to feel what he does, and not only admit it but to act upon it. Ever kiss they ever shared. Every time he undressed for Ronan, highlighted by the night and the stars: they were reckless with their lives, but careful with each other. It was another addition to the irony that seems to theme Adam’s life.

 

Ronan’s broad shoulders are covered in rain, and his beanie, which he flings off, sprinkles the floor with small droplets. Ronan smiles at Adam unsurely, pulling up a crate next to the desk and setting his stuff down. They must have agreed to this, but Adam can’t remember. His eyes ache with all the studying he has done.

 

“This exam isn’t going to be difficult,” Ronan says confidently and Adam rolls his eyes.

 

“Perhaps not for you,” he remarks coolly, shifting through his notes. “But I want to a _good_ grade, not just a pass.”

 

Ronan grins arrogantly, their argument old and comfortingly. He pats Adam’s leg, and his hand is very warm. “Sure, sure. Let’s do verbs.”

 

They roll through verbs and conjugations to more difficult Latin, including oral exam test questions and sentences. Time spirals late into the night and Adam’s eyes grow heavier, his responses slower. Ronan does not slow; does not grow tired. He knee jumps a little as he sits on the crate, rolling through sentences until they’re just making up their own fragments and slinging them back and forth.

 

“ _ut i Interrogo vos_ ,” Ronan says, and Adam realises he’s asking to ask a question. Adam nods. Ronan fixes him with a strange look, and it settles briefly on his features before disappearing again. Ronan sighs, and then says, “ _oculis tuis ne transeas_.”

 

Adam seizes, his skin goose bumping before he shakes his head. “ _Debeo_ ,” he says, even though it doesn’t quite fit.

 

Ronan swallows and nods, his jaw ticking, looking down at his hands where they intertwine in his lap. Adam slides off his chair until he’s kneeling in front of Ronan, his knees protesting the hardwood floors. He cups Ronan’s cheeks with both hands and looks down at the freckle above his lip. Something so innocent seems tantalising and misplaced on a boy like Ronan. It disturbs Adam.

 

He kisses Ronan without waiting for a response; pressing his lips flatly against his mouth, insinuating himself closer until he can feel Ronan’s knees press into his sides. His hands slide up into Adam’s hair and grip hard enough to remind Adam he’s there and corporeal, but not hard enough to hurt. Ronan has never touched him in a way to cause him pain, and this does not escape Adam.

 

They kiss until Adam’s lips feel bruised, until his hands are clammy and hot where they clutch at Ronan’s jaw, and the only noise that invades the otherwise silent church is the sound of their mouths coming together, the click of their tongues, and the desperate sound Ronan is making deep in his chest every time Adam tugs at his lip. It should be sacrilegious, what they’re doing. It probably is. Adam doesn’t care anymore: doesn’t care about being perfect, or being right, or being moral. At least not right now. Right now is about Ronan and him, and how they touch, and how it feels as if they are standing upon a cliff and looking down at all they are about to lose.

 

Somewhere deep in his heart, where he dares never to venture, he knows that whatever war they’ve been fighting has already been lost. Adam realises that Ronan probably knew this: knew that it was an uphill, never ending battle. They were destined for different things since the beginning. But he chose Adam anyway. In Ronan’s own way, he’d been choosing Adam since they’ve met.

 

It is with this searing, white-hot thought that he pulls Ronan to his feet and drags him to the bed. Adam tugs his shirt off, standing bare chested under the yellowing light with his scars pale and gleaming. Ronan stares down at him, eyes hooded and gaze heavy, cataloguing the way Adam’s skin ripples with goose bumps and his nipples bud slightly; Ronan looks hungry and flushed.

 

Adam leans in to kiss him again, rocking his hands up Ronan’s sweater until he can feel the hard lines of his back with his bare hands, the canyon between his shoulders, the odd freckle here and there. He grips at the muscle and flesh and pulls him closer until they’re chest to chest, until Ronan has no choice but to touch Adam back, to feel the very skeleton of him.

 

Adam removes Ronan’s jumper for him, t-shirt coming with. Ronan huffs slightly, and backs Adam up against the bed but pushes no farther - it is Adam who sits on the bed and pulls Ronan down with him. He feels slightly as if he is in the void - he cannot hear anything in his ear except for the thrumming of his own heart, his blood rushing in his ears, and the sound of Ronan’s breathing.

 

“What are we doing?” Ronan whispers into Adam’s mouth, his voice dazed but not unhappy.  

Adam tugs slightly at Ronan’s upper lip. Ronan is half on top of him on the bed, a knee between Adam’s thighs, propping himself up on one hand: he’s not given into this completely, still suspicious at the abrupt end to their studying. He attempts to give Adam a stern look, but it is ruined by the flushed rosiness of his cheeks.

 

“What does it look like we’re doing?” Adam bites impatiently, though he isn’t really impatient at all. His voice tends to adapt a haughtier, disparaging tone when Ronan doesn’t indulge Adam like he’s supposed to, and Adam has to spell it out for him. Like all their petty arguments, it is hollow and mostly friendly; cursory but easy.

 

“Not flashcards,” Ronan’s face betrays a smile and it reminds Adam briefly of the sun breaking over the horizon. He leans down to kiss Adam and then stands up, shucking his joggers and grinning, standing confidently in his boxers - at seventeen he looks more man than boy, and more god than man. His hands pull at the drawstring of Adam’s sweats and he removes them triumphantly in one swift move. Adam raises an eyebrow. If Ronan was unearthly and his mouth fell upon Adam like heaven, he is reckless and nonchalant with it. It doesn't matter anyway: he's never been good with handling deities.

 

They joke and jostle on the bed, a bundle of limbs all tangled together. All of these movements are delicacies enacted to take away from what the moment really is. Adam pretends to be annoyed with Ronan when really he is endeared; Ronan gestures crudely with his eyebrows and makes a joke to dissolve the tension; they both ignore how loudly their hearts are beating, how badly they both want to touch. Tonight is even worse because for the first time in weeks, Adam can feel the magic pull on his skin, like he’s itching to be deep in the forest and the earth; he swallows his sorrow like a bruise to his sternum. It is like the forest knows. It is like the forest knows before Adam does.

 

Ronan stops smiling. He must notice the look on Adam’s face, the stark fear, and bends tenderly down to cup Adam’s cheek and kiss him again. Ronan hits the switch above Adam’s bed so only the bedside lamp remains, an illuminated halo around the immediate area and casting a dark glow on their skin.

 

In darkness they become braver. Adam rolls himself on top of Ronan, almost shivering when their skin touches, the thin points of Adam’s rib cage poking into the middle of Ronan’s stomach, his knocked knees finding solace between his thighs, his dick heavy in his underwear and blood boiling. Ronan reaches up to kiss him, pulls him down and closer so they can rock together, until the friction is not enough.

 

They grapple with power but this isn’t new. Usually they wrestle for the upper hand until one of them is too turned on to be bothered anymore, instead trying to chase the first tremors of an orgasm - but this time is different from all the others. Ronan secedes first, he slows the rhythm of their hips to a gentle, torturous motion, letting Adam loom over him. Adam doesn’t know what it means but he is too distracted to understand it, lost in the moment. He pulls off Ronan’s underwear, dick hitting his hip.

 

Adam reaches for him, mouth caught between his teeth, when Ronan bats his hand away. He looks up with narrowed eyes, but Ronan isn’t deterred. “No,” he says, “I don’t want that.”

 

“What do you want, then?” Adam says, with a hint of spite in his voice. He didn’t realise he was taking requests. Ronan’s chest is heaving and his neck is flushed with where Adam had bitten him. He yanks open the bedside drawer and finds a bottle of lubricant that Ronan had bought months ago but they had never used, partly to sheer embarrassment. Adam stared at it in the bedcovers.

 

“I want you to fuck me,” Ronan bites out, pulling Adam back down roughly, straining his neck.

 

“But I -”

 

“You can,” Ronan interrupts him, firmly, and for a brief turn Adam sees something otherly in Ronan; unknown and unchartered, firm and decisive in the backbone of his soul. Ronan’s eyes are pleading with him but his voice does not tremor or betray any ill nerve. “I want you to. Please, Adam.”

 

It’s his name that throws him back into a fury to touch. He can’t help himself, greedy and commanding of Ronan’s mouth and attention and body. Ronan speaks of Adam like he is the first of God’s creations, like everyone from thereon was born from Adam’s plucked rib. Adam sits up and kicks off his boxers, using the small sliver of light allowed in the room to illustrate the lines of Ronan’s body splayed out beneath him.

 

Ronan’s body is like a canvas someone forgot about. The dark lines of his tattoo on his shoulders, the harsh vee of his hips, the dark flushed skin at the base of his dick, the capable cords of muscle in his thighs, the freckles and beauty marks dusting his skin in a constellation array. Adam didn’t need to see art to know exactly what he was looking at.

 

Ronan parts his legs around Adam but Adam realises he's not in any hurry yet. Suddenly the universe slows and it doesn't matter that their lives exist outside of this room. He leans down to kiss Ronan on the mouth but moves on to his chin, his cheeks, the high and elegant bridge of his nose, and the freckles near his eyelids, and the soft skin of his forehead. Ronan huffs impatiently or perhaps with embarrassment - but he doesn't care.

 

"Shut up," Adam orders when Ronan makes another sound of contempt, and to his surprise Ronan falls quiet, lips parted and welcoming. Adam reaches down to grasp Ronan, sliding his hand around the tip and feeling the wetness that gathered there. Ronan groans, his legs falling apart even further. Wanton, Adam thinks furtively. He has Ronan bending back at his will.

 

The power is terrible and addicting. Every kiss feels like a demand from Ronan, who reaches out and seeks to meet them. Adam is so turned on he can feel his boxers growing damp. He leans experimentally down to rut against Ronan, to drag his cock against his skin, to press the heat between them until it's unbearable.

 

Ronan catches Adam's hand in his grip and grabs the lube. Without looking up to meet his eye, Ronan places some of it on his fingers, slicking them. His gazes makes Adam's stomach twist pathetically, his torso heaving as he pulls his wrist back and moves his fingers between Ronan's cheeks. It feels like a breaching, but it does not feel wrong.

 

A gasp rips through the room - almost as if cutting through the dim light itself when Adam presses his finger inside. Ronan shudders reflexively and then bears down upon him, running his own hand along the length of his dick without finesse. Adam wonders if he's been dreaming about this - amidst all the tension and terror, Ronan had been thinking of Adam doing this. He pulls out and adds another finger, and coaches another sound of Ronan, crooking them into a beckon and trying to keep his wrist angled in the right away.

 

"There -” Ronan breathes, eyes fluttering shut as Adam runs his fingers over that spot again. "Fuck, right _there_."

 

There's an edge of pleading he's never heard before, but Adam is already committed to eliciting those sounds of Ronan from now on. He leans all his weight on his other arm, bent next Ronan's head and ghosts his lips along the high cheek bone there. Giving praise. Asking for forgiveness.

 

"I could bring you off like this," Adam whispers. "Let me get off like this."

 

Ronan shudders and swallows, turn his head so they can kiss. Adam can feel Ronan's hand pulling gently at his dick, his hips twisting to meet the movements of Adam's fingers, buried inside of him. He twists and watches in amazement as Ronan unspools underneath him, skin prickling and mouth parted in a heady, unbelieving breath. Ronan's thighs quake around Adam as he comes, his stomach tensing, his entire body clenching around Adam.

 

He pulls him through it to the end, waiting for the last tremor to quiet before pulling out of him. Adam wipes his fingers on the edge of his sheet absentmindedly, looking down at the mess between then, and the abused state of Ronan's neck where Adam had bitten him.

 

Ronan looks at him through lidded eyes. "You are a menace," he says weakly, his hands coming up to cup Adam's face, thumb placed under his eye.

 

Adam laughs, still ridiculously hard and enamoured with the afterglow of Ronan's skin.

 

"You think you're cute," Ronan smiles a real smile now, and it will be later that Adam will be able to capture the beauty of it; how it changes the entire disposition of Ronan's face in order to accommodate the emotion behind it.

 

But now he is too distracted to pay mind to Ronan's smile, not when he's being pinned upon the bed, and Ronan is slinking down his body to mouth at his dick. Adam squeezes his eyes shut, and swears not for the first time, that he sees stars.

 

-

 

Though the rain pelts thunderously against the thin yellowing windows of Nino's, the smell of summer burns through them and beckons closer. Adam sits between Blue and Noah in a cracked booth, biting his lip from grinning as Ronan gives Gansey hell for the pinstripe pink shirt he's revealed underneath his dark blue sweater.

 

The pizza had been finished long ago, Blue's apron flung over back of her seat behind her. Though she's trying not to laugh, her cheeks are tingled a floral pink with the effort, her body warm and small curled up next to him. Their last exam had finished that morning, and something bright sits in Adam's stomach, inciting a contagious, almost queasy feeling in him that has nothing to do with their food.

 

Even the lights around them had dimmed somehow, as Gansey rolls his eyes and Ronan tips his head back and laughs fully, the pale column of his neck exposed. Adam tries to catch the fast pace of the conversation as Blue and Noah join in, tag teaming so effortlessly in the teasing that Adam swears they've rehearsed it. But it's difficult to pay attention, with how full he's feeling.

 

He knows, looking around at the remnants of their meal and empty soda glasses, gold rimmed glasses folded neatly on the sticky table, tiny paper planes made of notebook paper, silver rings thrown carelessly about, and hair clips piled in their own corner, that he'll remember these details forever.

 

It would become a picture in his head he'd never lose. His heart surges. He surveys the people who own these trinkets, which otherwise would be useless: Gansey who commands their attention with the air of a King, Noah's cheerful and calming presence, Blue's veracious and undeniable beauty, and Ronan. The Raven himself,  gazing over the raucous laughter to smile at Adam like a secret, like he too shares what Adam feels, that all of sudden the universe is very large around them, the darkness outside belying a world far bigger and greater than them.

 

And yet it doesn't matter right now. Despite the unlikeliness of his circumstance, Adam has achieved everything he had never hoped to: a full stomach, a body unscathed, and friends, their skin and their bones and their hearts, filling the silence in his soul.

 

Adam knows the end of life as he knows it is near. Soon everything will change. He can feel it in Cabeswater as it weakens its grip, and the trails to Glendower widen. He can feel it in the dreams which haunt Ronan in his sleep, and the endless numbered days until Harvard. He can feel it in the way the old church sags underneath his touch, and the tremor in his chest knowing soon he will leave Ronan and Henrietta and their magic slice of earth and not look back. Their future is not a bright one. And yet. After a beat, he returns Ronan's smile.

 

Underneath the table, they clasp hands.

 

-

 

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own: that includes British spelling - I tried to fix most of it. I'm writing a second piece currently to follow (with the promise of a happier ending!).
> 
> Translations:
> 
> The title : somnium meum vestrum / I dream of you (Latin)  
> Adawi is a Cherokee equivalent to Adam (Cherokee)  
> a-wi-na / a young man (Cherokee)  
> Gv-ge-yu-hi / I love you (Cherokee)  
> ut i Interrogo vos / May I ask you something (Latin)  
> oculis tuis ne transeas / Please do not go (Latin)  
> Debeo / I owe (Latin) - this is the direct translation, but it can also mean I have to, I need to, I have an obligation...
> 
> you can follow me on tumblr: odetopsych-e.tumblr.com
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome! And as always, comments are life.


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